Sergeant Peter's Lonely Hearts Club
by dances with irrelevancy
Summary: The way Peter saw it, there was a reason cupidity rhymed with stupidity, and it wasn't just to make song-writing easier. Eventual Peter/Davy
1. Chapter 1

******Summary**: Peter accidentally starts a Lonely Hearts Club. Stuff happens.

**Pairing**: Eventual Peter/Davy

**Warnings**: Some homophobia, I guess.  
**  
****Notes**: I just wanted to write a Peter/Davy fic called Sergeant Peter's Lonely Hearts Club. Clearly, there is something wrong with me. Concrit, as ever, welcome :)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own The Monkees - this is done purely for fun. Please don't sue!

* * *

There was a term for this, and that term was 'collateral damage'.

Nobody liked to talk about it, because Davy was kind of like Cupid. Nine times out of ten, his love arrows hit the target dead-on.

The problem was, sometimes those arrows went wide. Or sometimes, the current object of his affection was standing a little too close to a victim of circumstance, who unfortunately got grazed by Davy's infatuation as it winged its way through the air to its true target.

It wasn't Davy's _fault, _Peter knew. The way he saw it, there was a reason cupidity rhymed with stupidity, and it wasn't just to make song-writing easier.

No, Davy was always so single-mindedly focused on the most recent girl-of-his-dreams that he never even noticed that he was wading knee-deep in broken hearts (Peter hoped he wasn't overstating the case – anyone else would only have been ankle-deep).

On Davy's part any hurt was purely unintentional and accidental.

Unfortunately this didn't make the casualties of his charm any less real. Or any less, well…awkward. Because while Davy was finely tuned to the slightest sign of feminine interest, when it came to guys, he had a tin ear.

And given Davy's inherent inability to disappoint a feminine female, that meant that the bulk of the collateral damage Davy caused was, well, male.

And that was how Peter ended up in charge of a Lonely Hearts Club.

* * *

Well, strictly speaking, Peter didn't think of it like that. But then, he'd never meant to start a club at all, so maybe he wasn't the best person to ask about it.

Really, it all began with Lucy Henderson. Well, actually, it began with Lucy Henderson's brother Neil, who didn't take it very well when Davy and Lucy broke up. He started lurking around the beach house, and haunting their all-too-infrequent gigs, eyes narrowed, a frown on his clean-cut, wholesome face, ham-sized fists clenched tight.

"S'funny, though," Davy said. "I can't think why he's so cut up about it. I mean – Lucy was the one who broke up with me."

"Well, Brother-boy here obviously didn't get the memo," Micky said, squinting through the window.

"Is he still there?" Davy asked.

Micky nodded. "Like Old Yeller." He considered the figure pacing outside. "Except more rabid."

"But I've got to go," Davy said, looking at his watch. "I'm meeting Susie on the beach in half an hour."

"In that case, you know what you've got to do, don'tcha?" Mike said.

Davy sighed, as he shrugged into an oversized coat and grabbed a walking stick. "This is ridiculous," he said, retrieving a grey moustache from his pocket and sticking it onto his face.

Peter tilted his head. "I don't know – I think you look distinguished." A Davy with a grey moustache was still Davy, after all.

"I mean, I can't keep disguising myself every time I have to leave the Pad," Davy said. "It's ludicrous. It's preposterous. It's absurd."

"Hey, if you want to go out there and explain that to _him_, be our guest," Mike said, gesturing toward the door.

Davy stared at it for a moment, probably remembering that a notable feature of this particular square was his sharp corners, because he said, "On the other hand" –

"I think you mean, 'on the other fist,'" Micky interrupted.

" – he can't keep this up forever." Davy said. "He's bound to get tired of waiting around for me sooner or later."

"Well, lets hope for all our sakes that it's 'sooner'," Mike said.

Davy jammed a grey fedora on his head, tilting it downwards until it covered as much of his face as possible. Then he opened the door and shuffled past the jock on the other side. Peter thought that in spite of his unwavering aversion to Davy, Neil Henderson couldn't be all bad, because he immediately stepped aside, with a polite, "Excuse me, Gramps."

Davy continued his stooped walk, very carefully avoiding any eye contact.

"Bye, Mr Moscovitz," Micky called from the door.

"Don't forget to visit again, real soon," Mike said.

"Have fun surfing!" Peter called. Micky elbowed him, and Mike closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face..

Neil Henderson's head whipped around. "Surfing?" he queried.

"Yeah – he uh – he finds that riding the waves really helps him stay loose," Micky improvised. Neil Henderson turned back to the bent, hobbling old man…only to do a double-take at his sudden disappearance (Davy having prudently vamoosed as soon as Neil's attention had shifted).

"See?" Micky said, with a dramatic flourish and a hopeful smile.

Neil Henderson frowned.

Hauling Micky and Peter backwards, Mike said, "Anyhow, fun and all as it'd be to stay and chat, we really oughta be going."

"You know how it is," Micky chimed in, "People to not see, things to not do…"

Mike began to swing the door closed, but was impeded by an oversized foot.

"Is Jones in there?" Neil Henderson peered over Mike's shoulder.

"Davy?" Mike said. "No, he's not here." He turned to Micky. "Have you seen Davy?"

"Not lately," Micky said. He asked Peter, "Have you seen Davy?"

"Of course I have," Peter said. "Don't you remember, Mick? He was here just a minute ag" –

Micky made an exasperated noise. "Thanks Pete."

Mike tried to salvage the situation. "What Pete is trying to say is – even if Davy _was_ here before, he's not now. So maybe you oughta just – go home, man."

He tried to close the door again, but Neil Henderson's foot remained stubbornly wedged between the door and the frame, keeping it open. "I don't believe you," he said.

"Well, that's your prerogative, but I don't see what you're gonna do about it," Mike said.

Neil Henderson pushed himself against the mostly closed door, forcing it open and shoving Mike backwards.

"Well, I guess you could always do _that_," Mike allowed, rubbing his shoulder with a grimace. Neil Henderson ignored him, in favour of prowling through the Pad.

"Hey, this is our home, and you can't just barge in here like that!" Micky pointed out.

Neil Henderson swiveled around to face him, and Micky quickly backtracked. "What you _really_ want is the grand tour – so step right up! If you look to your left, folks, you might notice an item of particular interest – the stained glass window. Construction of this lovely feature was originally begun in 19" –

"I'm not interested in your grand tour," Neil Henderson said. "I'm interested in Jones."

"He _is_ one of our most popular attractions," Mike allowed wryly.

"However, I think you'll find that Davy's currently on loan to another gallery," Micky finished. "The one with the cutest curator."

Neil Henderson started for the spiral staircase. "Then you won't mind if I make sure of that, will you?"

"Be our guest," Peter said.

"Our unwanted, unwelcome, uninvited guest," Micky muttered under his breath as Neil scaled the stairs. "I mean, he didn't even bring a fruit-basket. That's just common courtesy."

"Man, this is getting beyond a joke," Mike said, frowning at the staircase. "It's been a solid month since Davy and his sister broke up, and he's still parked outside our door every single day. That's not brotherly love – that's an out-and-out fixation."

Mike was absolutely right, of course, as Mike tended to be. Funnily enough, though, no-one, including Mike himself, realised just _how_ right he actually was. Maybe it was because Neil Henderson didn't exactly seem like the type to be swept off his feet by Davy.

(He didn't seem like the type to be swept off his feet by _anyone_, given that he was taller than Mike, and built, as Mike said, " – like a barn."

"A barn full of rusty nails and dangerous machinery," Micky agreed).

And that impression wasn't exactly softened by the fact that when he came back downstairs, he said, "Tell Jones that when I see him…" and he smacked his right fist into his left palm hard.

"Tell Davy…" Micky copied the gesture, then grimaced in surprised pain as he shook out his punched palm. "Got it!" while Peter began to scribble on the message pad on the coffee table.

"Listen – Neil – don't you think this thing has gone far enough?" Mike asked, coming to stand in front of him. "I mean – when it comes down to it, Davy didn't do anything wrong. Matter of fact, to hear him tell it, your sister broke up with him, so I'm guessing she's not exactly crying into her pillow at night."

"What are you trying to say?" Neil Henderson asked.

"I'm trying to say – we could all save face if you just turned around and headed home right now," Mike said.

"How would _me_ leaving help me to save face?" he asked.

"It would save Davy's face," Micky pointed out. When Neil Henderson swung around to him, he held up both hands placatingly, before saying, "I know, I know, tell Davy…" before whacking his palm with his fist again.

"Tell Jones this isn't over," Neil Henderson said, before slamming the door closed behind him.

"Well, we tried," Mike said, with a sigh.

"'…isn't over'," Peter repeated, as he scrawled the last of Neil's message.

* * *

When Davy returned later (via the downstairs bedroom window) and heard the full story, he said, "Looks like there's only one thing left to do. I've just got to face him, man to man."

"Don't you mean, mountain to midget?" Micky asked. "Davy, you can't face that guy – he'll cream you."

"We can't go on like this," Davy said. "Prisoners in our own home, waiting for the axe to fall…"

"Yeah, but you can't exactly blame Lucy's brother for that," Mike said.

All four stared upwards, at the precariously swinging axe above their heads.

"I wonder why Mr Babbitt put that thing up there," Peter said.

Davy shook his head, bringing them back to the present. "I'll talk to Neil tomorrow."

"He didn't seem real interested in 'talking', if you get my drift," Mike said.

"Yeah, he seemed way more interested in rearranging your face. In the style of Picasso."

"I don't think you should see him, Davy," Peter said. "I like your face."

"Me too, but I don't see that I've got much choice," Davy told him. "It's either that, or live the rest of my life as Benny Moscovitz. And those false moustaches are starting to chafe."

Later that night, as he and Peter got ready for bed, Davy was almost philosophical. "You gotta admit, that guy's turned into a first class drag. Maybe this will get it out of his system, and we can finally get back to normal."

"It _would_ be nice if you could go back to playing gigs in your regular clothes," Peter admitted.

"Anyway – who's to say he won't be the one to get a nasty shock? I'm tougher than I look, y'know."

Peter thought about it. "You _were_ the only one who could open that jar of pickles last week," he said.

"There you are," Davy said, but he frowned up at the ceiling all the same.

Peter took the opportunity to study him. He knew Davy's face off by heart by now, knew every feature so well he didn't even need to look. But he did anyway, every chance he got.

As his eyes traced every familiar contour, he was struck anew by the thought that there was someone who disliked Davy enough to want to physically hurt him. Even though Micky had once told him 'Gullible' was his middle name (actually, according to his mom, it was Marvin) – with his eyes still fixed on Davy's well-known, endearing face, Peter found this a hard thought to swallow.

* * *

When it came down to it, Davy never did end up confronting Neil Henderson, because early the next morning, when Peter left to get groceries, he heard a, "Hey!" from over to his left, which made him jump and try to hide behind the grocery bag.

But when he peeked out from behind the bag, he saw the exhausted figure of Neil Henderson, slumped against the side of the house.

"Oh, he said, rubbing his eyes. "It's you." The tone of his voice left no doubt as to his disappointment in that fact. "Which one are you?"

Still kind of jumpy, Peter blinked and said, "I'm not sure – but I'm certain it'll come to me in a minute." He frowned at Neil Henderson, and the wall he was leaning against. "Did you stay here all night?"

Neil Henderson didn't answer him, just squinted up at Peter and said, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Peter said. "But I should warn you, history, geography and general knowledge are my weak areas."

"Did he move out?"

"Davy?"

There was a jerky nod from the figure on his left.

"What – um…what would make you think that?" Peter stalled, not really sure whether he should tell the truth or not.

Neil Henderson shrugged, and stared down at his hands. "I don't know," he said. "Just – I haven't seen him in so long, and now whenever you have a gig, that old man plays the maracas." He looked at Peter again, and asked, "Is he gone?"

Since he didn't seem violently inclined, Peter risked coming a couple of steps closer. "Well, Davy's been keeping kind of a low profile lately," he said finally.

"Oh," Neil Henderson said. "I guess I scared him off, huh?" He focused on his hands once more, flexing his fingers in his lap. And even though his hands were enormous, adult, there was something childlike in the gesture, and abruptly, somehow, Peter knew. The kind of knowing that didn't require a lot of thinking and puzzling out (luckily, because Peter wasn't so good at those things). This kind of knowing was more like a feeling. It seemed to bypass his brain altogether, lodging in his chest instead.

"I didn't mean to scare him off for good," Neil Henderson said, eventually. "I just…wanted…" He trailed off inarticulately.

Because it turned out that Neil Henderson wasn't a threat. Neil Henderson was just a larger piece of debris than usual – and it was suddenly impossible to feel afraid of him anymore. Looking at his twitching fingers, a wave of sympathy washed through Peter, and he swung himself down to sit next to him. Neil looked at him out of the side of his eye, but didn't object.

Peter studied his downcast head, his tired face, before saying, kindly, "Davy's a really great guy, you know. He would never hurt anyone on purpose."

Neil Henderson swallowed. "Yeah, but…my sister" – he stopped for a moment, before continuing in a low, urgent kind of voice, as if he couldn't help himself, "She can't eat. She can't sleep. She goes to college, but she can't pay attention in class. She's making stupid mistakes on the football field. All she can think about is Jones."

Peter's heart twisted inside him. "It – sounds rough."

"Yeah." Neil Henderson stared straight ahead.

"And – do you miss Davy too?" Peter asked.

He jerked. "What? Are you nuts? I barely know the guy. We went on two double dates, that's it."

"Oh," Peter said.

"Three," Neil Henderson said, as if he was admitting some deep dark secret. His gaze flicked lightning-fast to Peter before darting away again. "It mighta been three double-dates, now that I think about it."

"Well, two double-dates is maybe a little soon, but it's probably okay to miss him after three," Peter offered – though really, he had only the haziest grasp on the etiquette of the situation.

"No it's not," Neil Henderson said, in this small stubborn voice.

He just looked so tired.

"I would," Peter admitted suddenly.

Neil Henderson's head shot up. His face was set in grim lines, but his eyes were full of a kind of hopeful desperation as he looked at Peter. "You…would?" he said.

Peter tried to imagine a world completely devoid of Davy – a world where he wasn't able to look over and see Davy whenever he wanted, a world where he didn't fall asleep to Davy's even breathing, a world where Davy would never again smile at him. Just the idea made his heart cramp up with a kind of preemptive misery.

So he looked right at Neil Henderson and said, simply, but definitely, "Yeah. I would."

Neil Henderson turned his head away and stared blindly ahead, at the sea. "Oh," he said.

Peter scooted a little closer. "Would you try something?" he said, because the misery of thinking of a Davy-less world was still echoing in his chest, and if Neil Henderson was feeling like that, then it made Peter doubly sorry for him.

Neil Henderson glanced warily at him, but didn't say anything, and Peter took this as assent.

"Close your eyes," he said. After a moment, Neil Henderson did. "Now – try to fix on Davy – get a picture of him in your head." He waited. "Can you see him?"

"Yeah," Neil Henderson said.

"Make him as clear as you can," Peter told him. "Like you could reach out and touch him." He looked at Neil's face scrunched up in concentration. "Do you have it?"

"Yeah."

"Now hold on to him, as tight as you can." Neil Henderson frowned, and Peter laid a hand on one jittering wrist. He stiffened, but allowed the touch. Peter closed his own eyes, and summoned an image from last night, Davy – frowning up at the bedroom ceiling, a small preoccupied frown on his face, lips parted. Longing twanged in Peter like a plucked guitar string. "Now – breathe in. And out. And let him go."

"Let him go?"

Peter nodded, eyes still closed. He breathed in, in, in, until he was full to bursting with hopeless wanting, until it pricked at his chest, and pushed at the back of his eyes –

- and then he breathed out, out, out, and let it all go, letting every last aching particle of yearning drift up and away into the blue sky above.

He took another breath, feeling kind of bare inside and cleansed, newly aware of the sun-warmed ground he was sitting on – and opened his eyes. Neil Henderson was looking at him. The harsh, exhausted lines had smoothed out from his face somewhat, but he still didn't look relaxed.

"Feel any better?" Peter asked. It was an exercise that always helped him. See, Davy was like a gift, but – a gift that belonged to the _world_. So, the tighter you tried to hold on to him, and the more you tried to make him belong to you alone, the more you realised that he wasn't yours at all.

His mom had always taught him that it was bad manners not to share. And Davy was _such_ a _good_ thing – the _best_ thing…so of course it would be selfish of anyone to try and keep him to themselves. It was easy, when you looked at it like that.

The only thing to do, Peter had decided, was to accept the little things that Davy offered him – a smile, a warm-breathed whisper in his ear, the steadying touch of a hand on his shoulder…but then let them go, before they had a chance to turn sour, before he started to think that those things _belonged _to him, that he had a _right_ to them. Gifts were things that were freely given. You couldn't demand them, or expect them, or hoard them. That took all the magic of the gifts away.

"Yeah," Neil Henderson said. "I feel – better. How did you know" – he stopped.

He couldn't lie. He didn't think he had to. He just looked at Neil Henderson, carefully open, almost smiling.

Neil Henderson looked at him for a very long, quiet moment. Then he licked his lips and said, "Do – you" –

Peter waited, but Neil looked down and abruptly, his face closed off, as he forcefully shrugged Peter's hand off his wrist. "You" – he said, and, "You" – again.

He got to his feet in a jerky movement and stood there, breathing heavily. But he didn't break eye-contact with Peter, and Peter just looked steadily back at him. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

"Freak," Neil Henderson said finally, before he turned and staggered away – but any power the word had was negated by how terrified he sounded as he said it.

* * *

"Man, what did you say to him?" Mike said admiringly a couple of hours later, when Peter ventured a tentative explanation for Neil Henderson's sudden absence from the front of the Pad.

"Yeah – how'd you scare him away?" Micky asked.

"I don't know," Peter said, a little uneasy. Neil Henderson's secret was like a heavy stone in his pocket. "I didn't – I mean, we just talked."

"I guess that'd do it," Micky decided.

Davy turned and looked at him. "I was going to face him, you know," he said, quite serious. "I would've done it," he said. "Made up my mind, I had."

"I know," Peter said.

A brilliant smile spread across Davy's face, specially, entirely for Peter. He touched Peter's arm, just above his elbow. "Thanks," he said.

Like the gift that was, Peter took it, and held onto it for a few seconds, before breathing out, and letting it go. He felt compelled to say, "You know – I don't think he would've hurt you. I don't think that's what he really wanted at all."

Davy fixed him with a skeptical look. "Well, for someone who wasn't fixing to take me apart, he gave a pretty good impression of it."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Mike cautioned. "I mean, sure, he's gone for now, but he could always come back."

Peter shook his head, remembering the dazed, scared look on Neil Henderson's face as he had said, "Freak."

"I don't think he's going to be back," he said simply.

But Peter was wrong, because he showed up at the Pad four days later – and this time, he brought a friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, 'friend' was perhaps overstating the case. Neil Henderson showed up with a waiter from one of the restaurants where he and Davy had double-dated. The waiter himself seemed less than enthused about his sudden presence at the beach-house, given that he was only kept in place by Neil's grip on his collar.

"Here," Neil said, when Peter opened the door of the Pad, thrusting the waiter forwards.

Peter blinked. "Oh," he said. And then, since more seemed to be required, "I didn't know we were exchanging gifts. I didn't get you anything."

"Believe me, he's not a gift," Neil said grimly.

The waiter stopped thrashing wildly for a moment to note, "Hey, man – I'm missing a shift for this – the least you could do is say something nice about me."

Neil ignored him. "Well?" he asked Peter.

Peter considered the struggling figure in front of him. His hair was curly and he wore thick black-rimmed glasses.

"I like his shirt," he volunteered.

Neil Henderson growled in frustration while the struggling figure briefly stopped struggling to say, "Thanks!"

"Not – not that!" Neil said. "He's a waiter. I caught him looking at Jones."

"Hey – looking's free! You can't get into trouble for _looking _at someone," the waiter said.

"The way you were doing it, you could," Neil told him. "_And _you stole his napkin. I saw you put it in your pocket."

He shook the waiter, once, as a kind of punctuation to his words, before turning to Peter and saying, "So? What have you got to say?"

Peter stared at him.

"Well?"

He cleared his throat. "Theft is a-a serious societal issue – but in this case I really think you should take it up with the owner of the restaurant."

"I _meant_ – that he's hung up on _Jones_. What are you going to say about _that_? He's a guy and he's hung up on another guy. You gonna tell _him_ it's okay, too?"

Neil's eyes bored into him. Peter frowned and said, "No."

Some indefinable tension seemed to leave Neil as he repeated, "No. You're not?"

"Well, not right away, at least," Peter said. "I should probably introduce myself first. I'm Peter," he told the waiter.

"Harvey," the waiter said, extending a hand for Peter to shake. "Harvey Barak – Blue Door Restaurant."

"Davy said you do great roast beef," Peter told him.

Harvey scuffed his toe against the ground. "He really said that?"

As Peter nodded, he caught sight of Neil's face, full of some strange mixture of disappointment and relief. It kind of hurt to look at him. Peter stood back and gestured behind him. "Do you want to come in?" It was a safe enough offer, since Davy and Mike were currently scouring town for vital ingredients to reverse a sleeping potion – while Micky was upstairs lying face-down and motionless on his bed.

An hour later and the three were all sitting around the kitchen table, eyes closed.

" – now breathe out," Peter said, and demonstrated, before opening his eyes. He smiled at his companions.

"Hey – that's a neat trick," Harvey said. "Where'd you learn it?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know. I just – started doing it."

"Well, it works."

"Yeah," Neil agreed. He looked furtively at Harvey before saying, "…I should pass it on to my sister."

"You know – this," Harvey made a little gesture that somehow encompassed the three of them as well as the kitchen table, "really hasn't worked out the way I figured it would."

"Oh?" Peter asked.

Harvey pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. When this guy showed up and got mad at me for _looking _at your friend, call me crazy, but I thought no matter where I ended up, I probably wouldn't be having a good time."

"I don't think Davy'd mind you looking at him. Davy's nice to look at," Peter said. "I like looking at him."

"How can you say stuff like that?" Neil asked. "How can you – _believe_ it?"

Peter thought about it. "I guess it's because I think it's true. It's always easier to believe things if you think they're true."

Neil just looked at him uncomprehendingly, while Harvey mused, "You know, we should make this a regular thing."

And that was how the club got started.

* * *

Really, it was kind of nice to spend time discussing Davy with like-minded people. People who appreciated the warm shade of Davy's eyes, the rhythm of his voice, the curve of his lips when he smiled…

Peter was used to dealing with this stuff on his own, but for the others, just being able to talk about it seemed to help. Harvey reported fewer restaurant breakages and an improved ability to remember customer orders, while Neil admitted that his sister was making fewer mistakes on the football field.

It filled Peter with a happy, warm feeling to know that he was helping them.

When Micky and Mike found out about it, though, they didn't see it quite like that.

"What in the world is going on here?" Mike asked, stopping in the middle of the kitchen with a particularly loud squelch, and staring at the four figures seated around the table.

Peter fidgeted a little under their confused gazes. "You're back early. I thought you two were interviewing for those jobs at the zoo?"

"Oh, we interviewed all right," Micky said. "Turns out 'shark-cage cleaner' is really more of a 'calling'. But on the bright side, I got a new shark's-tooth necklace out of it."

He brandished a large whitish object in his palm.

Absently, while still gazing at the group seated around the table, Mike started wringing water out of his hat. Finally, he said, "Looks like you've been pretty busy here, too. Mind telling us exactly what's going on, Pete?"

"This is the Davy Jones Discussion Group," Harvey informed him.

"The Davy Jones Discussion Group?" Micky wrinkled his nose. "He's Davy – how much is there to discuss? I guess you guys must really have to dig into the _minutiae_, huh?"

He clapped Harvey on the back, to share the joke, but Harvey just stared blankly at him, before turning to Mike and asking, "Are you guys looking to become members?"

"Oh, no, they're just my" – Peter began to say, but Mike held up a hand and said, carefully, "Well, I guess that depends. What do you have to do, if you're a member of the" – his eyes flicked briefly to Peter, " – Davy Jones Discussion Group?"

"It's all in the name, really," Harvey told him. "Mostly, we just discuss Davy. Things he said, the stuff he likes, favourite outfits…Oh – and we do breathing exercises."

"Uh-huh," Mike said, nodding very slowly. "So…to be a member of the" –

"Davy Jones Discussion Group," Harvey finished.

" – you've really gotta be a…fan…of Davy's." Mike's gaze felt like a weight on top of Peter's head.

"I'm just here for my sister – okay?" Neil said, jaw hard and fists clenching on the table-top.

Mike regarded him. "Okay man," he said softly. "I got it."

Neil relaxed minutely, and a brief silence fell.

"So…are you ever gonna introduce us to your new friends?" Micky prompted eventually.

Peter started. "Oh! Of course – where are my manners?"

"Probably in the same place as your common sense and keen wit," Micky said.

"This is Neil – Davy dated his sister for a while. You guys remember Neil, don't you?"

"Neil's…hard to forget," Mike agreed.

"Yeah – you sure left an impression," Micky said. "Mostly in the cement out back – that wasn't dry."

"And this is Harvey. Davy went to Harvey's restaurant once. Harvey – these are my friends, Mike and Micky."

"Nice to meet you," Harvey said.

"Likewise, I'm sure," Mike said, then raised his eyebrows inquiringly at Peter. Who raised his right back.

Mike sighed and gestured at the last person sitting around the table – a lanky, mousy-haired boy about the same age as Peter, who seemed to be following the proceedings with interest.

"Oh! That's Pavel," Peter said. "He just followed me home from the grocery store today."

"Well, you can't keep him," Micky said. "Remember what happened the last time someone followed you home?"

"I didn't know he was an escaped criminal," Peter defended.

"Yeah. Because stripes and handcuffs are just the latest trend."

Pavel launched into what was possibly an explanation, and from his hand-gestures, seemed to involve a variety of differently shaped fruit and vegetables. Unfortunately, since Pavel's words were all in another language, the Monkees just ended up staring blankly at him – though Harvey laughed, and clapped him on the back.

"What'd he just say?" Mike asked.

"Well, it's not really what he said," Harvey told him. "It's more the way he said it."

* * *

Micky's objections were quashed as soon as he found out that the continued existence of the Davy Jones Discussion Group meant continued access to Blue Door leftovers via Harvey.

"Maybe this is a good thing. I mean, face it, Mike – right now Pete's the only one bringing in any bread – even if it is the day old stuff."

And even though Davy didn't exactly know the reason why their refrigerator was suddenly full of confit and caramelized pears, and why canapés had become a staple breakfast food, he accepted it without question when Micky told him, simply, "Peter knows a guy."

"Peter knows a lot of guys," Mike muttered under his breath, as he bit into an amuse-bouche with little sign of enjoyment.

"I can't remember the last time I saw this much food," Davy marvelled. He patted Peter's shoulder, and said, "Whatever you're doing, keep it up."

Mike choked.

* * *

It turned out, however, that a potentially limitless source of dinner rolls and braised baby artichokes wasn't enough to allay Mike's misgivings, and he cornered Peter soon after breakfast and instigated a serious talk.

"Now, I'm not saying this – Fan Club – is a bad idea," he said, while Peter sat on the couch and watched him pace back and forth.

"It's a discussion group," Peter corrected.

Mike didn't take any notice. "I just don't think you've thought it all the way through is all."

"But I'm helping people," Peter said. "Harvey says he's getting bigger tips because he can finally concentrate on people's orders again, and Neil says his sister scored the winning touchdown in Saturday's big game. How can there be something wrong with that?"

Mike sighed. "Well, okay, when you explain it like _that_, sure, you're helping them. But, you gotta look at it from a different angle to get the whole picture. See – you're bringing these guys to the Pad – where Davy _lives_. And you're _talking_ about Davy and _thinking_ about Davy, and…when you look at it like that, you're just fanning the flames. And boy, are we ever _not_ prepared to deal with an inferno here."

Peter thought about it, frowning. He was dispirited to realize that, "You're right."

"I'm sorry, buddy," Mike said. He stopped, pressing his lips together before he said, "Listen…I know it's…hard, dealing with those kinds of feelings, but, well…you see what you've got to do now, right?"

Peter could feel his eyebrows drawing together in determination. "I sure do."

"Good," Mike said. He patted Peter's shoulder. "I'm proud of you. And remember…if you need to talk about anything, I'm here, and Micky…" He paused. "…well, like I said, I'm here."

* * *

"You know, this wasn't really what I meant," Mike said, during the next meeting of the Davy Jones Discussion Group.

"It wasn't?"

"As a matter of fact, I was kinda thinking you were going to disband the club."

"Really?" Peter frowned. "I thought you were telling me I needed to take my leadership role more seriously, to send the club in a whole new direction."

"Not even close," Mike said, almost marveling at the miscommunication.

"New direction?" Harvey asked. "What's that?"

Peter cleared his throat. "I think we need to start working on getting over Davy."

"In that case, you're probably going to need a new name," MIcky said, through a mouthful of quail eggs. "How about the Anti-Jones Brigade? The Summer of Suppression?"

Pavel cut in with a rueful sounding suggestion, eyebrows raised.

Micky laughed. "Good one, Pavel."

Mike frowned at him. "How do _you_ understand what he's saying?"

"Easy," Micky told him. "I just read the subtitles."

Mike considered it. "I guess that makes sense."

"Getting over Davy?" Harvey asked, suddenly bringing them back to the point. "What would that involve?"

"Probably not a lot," Micky said. "You've seen him. He's about the size of a speedbump. Go slow and you'll be over him in no time."

"It means hard work and relentless emotional honesty," Peter said. "But the reward will be worth it."

"Reward?" Harvey repeated.

"You won't be hung up on Davy anymore. You'll be free to find someone more suitable. Someone who feels the same way about you that you feel about them." Peter looked around at his fellow club members. "So – what do you say?"

Pavel seemed excited, and Harvey said, "I guess we could try it. What've we got to lose, right?"

Neil shrugged and said, staring down at his hands, "I'm only here for my sister, anyway, so…it doesn't matter to me."

But after the meeting was over, and Peter walked them to the door, he waited until Pavel and Harvey were gone, and then asked Peter in a low, urgent voice, "You really think you can change me?"

Peter looked at him for a long moment, the hard lines of his face, the set of his jaw, before telling him, "But…I don't wait to change you. I like you the way you are."

Neil looked away.

"I just want to help you-your sister," he corrected quickly as Neil's eyes snapped back to his face, "get over Davy. That's all."

Neil seemed to take this on board. He nodded, once. "I guess that's a start," he said, with a funny twist of his lips, before turning away.

As soon as Peter closed the door, Mike said, "You know this is going to be trouble, don't you?"

He sounded weary, but resolved, almost as if he didn't anticipate an answer to the question.

So, Peter asked him instead, a little guiltily, "Did you really expect me to stop the club?"

"Well, maybe not 'expect' so much as 'hope,'" Mike allowed. His eyes swept Peter's face, taking him in. "This thing's real important to you, huh?"

Peter nodded.

See…the thing was, it was too late for him. Peter'd felt like this for so long now that loving Davy was like…playing his guitar. He knew he hadn't been born able to play the guitar, but by now, it was so much a part of who he was that it kind of felt like he had. And it was the same with how he felt about Davy. Maybe it hadn't started out that way, but it was a part of him now.

Sure, he could pretend otherwise, but what would be the point? It would be like locking his guitar away and never playing it again. Even if he never picked it up for the rest of his life – he'd still know how to play it. Because there were some things that, once you knew them, there was no way to forget them. They just _were._

But…it hadn't been until Mike had spoken to him that he had understood – it wasn't _like_ that for the rest of the Davy Jones Discussion Group. They were beginners and they'd barely begun to master the basic chords. It wasn't too late for them to find a more suitable instrument.

And it was his job to help them with that.

Peter opened his mouth to try and explain, though all those thoughts – guitars, feelings, locked rooms and new instruments – seemed to mash together in his head into a kind of incomprehensible gravy.

Luckily, however, Mike didn't seem to need an explanation. He just sighed and said, "All right then. Once you know what you're getting in to." As if he couldn't help himself, Mike pointed out, "I mean – for one thing, how long do you think you can keep these meetings from Davy?"

Peter considered it. "I don't know." He smiled his most reassuring smile at Mike. "I guess we'll find out."

Mike, for some reason, did not appear especially reassured.


	3. Chapter 3

Obviously, things got more complicated when Davy found out about the no-longer-fan club. But, really, things began to go downhill before that – when the fifth (and final) member of the group showed up.

His name was Eddie Carey, and Pavel recruited him, or, as Eddie said, as he waltzed past Mike and into the Pad, "He gave me one of your cards."

Mike turned to Peter. "You had _cards _made?"

"I thought it made us seem more professional," Peter explained.

Mike stared, but Micky threw an arm around Peter and said, "You gotta admit, Mike, if there's anyone who could turn pining into a profession, it's Pete."

Any reluctance on Mike's part was made up for on Pavel's, who greeted Eddie effusively, and immediately pulled him over to introduce him to Harvey.

No, the first _real _sign of trouble came when Neil arrived for the meeting. He stepped into the Pad, only for his greeting to die on his lips as he made eye-contact with Eddie. Then he went pale, and he half-turned, as if his first instinct was to flee.

Eddie Carey seemed surprised at his presence too, though less upset by it. A smile spread over his face and he sat back in his chair with his arms folded. "Well," he said. "This _is_ unexpected."

"What are _you_ doing here?" Neil asked, eyes wary.

"You two know each other?" Peter asked, eyes darting from one to the other. "That's…nice?" he hoped. Pavel pulled on Eddie's sleeve and muttered something in his ear. Eddie didn't take any notice.

"What am _I_ doing here?" Eddie said. "I think the real question is – what are _you _doing here?" He took out the business card Pavel had given him, and flicked it between his fingers. "I'm here to get over some cat called Davy Jones…but I'm guessing that _can't_ be why _you're_ here."

Neil swallowed. "I'm here for my sister," he said, in a hoarse voice. "She used to date Jones and – she's still kinda hung up on him, so…"

Eddie laughed, and Neil stiffened. "What?"

"I'm just thinking – your sister must be a pretty tall girl…for you to be able to hide behind her like that."

Almost before he'd finished the sentence, Neil charged, and it was only by dint of fancy, panicked footwork that a brawl was avoided.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Mike said, as he and Micky hauled Eddie Carey out of reach.

"Remember children – violence doesn't solve anything – it just leaves nasty stains on the carpeting," Micky said, in a mother-knows-best kind of voice.

"You don't have any carpeting," Neil growled, knocking him out of the way.

"…I was kind of hoping you wouldn't notice that."

Peter moved to stand in front of Neil, blocking his path (which didn't make much difference, given that Neil was built like a snowplough, and merely continued on his way, pushing Peter in front of him like so much slush. At least, until Peter planted a hand in the middle of his chest and said, as loudly as he could in all the commotion, "Neil –stop. Don't. Please."

This actually seemed to get through to him, and he subsided, chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon, eyes fixed on Peter in the sudden silence.

"All right then," Mike said, helping Micky to his feet. "Now – what was that all about?"

"Sssh." Micky held up a hand. "My life's still flashing in front of my eyes – and I just got to a good bit."

"Nothing," Neil said. "It was a mistake. Tork's just gotta throw this guy out and everything will be fine."

"Throw me out? I've got more of a right to be here than you. I'm here for the real Davy Jones experience, after all – and you're just here…for your sister."

Neil's jaw clenched, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead he pulled Peter as far away as possible, and said, "Listen, Tork…Peter – I know this guy" –

"I kind of figured," Peter said.

" – from college, and he's trouble. Believe me. He's always making these – these _comments_" –

"Like what?" Peter asked.

Neil ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know – if I tell you it's going to sound like nothing. It's hard to explain. But trust me – he's going to ruin everything. Make him leave."

He waited. Peter bit his lip, and said, "I don't want to throw anybody out if they need help with their Davy problem. It would be – against the spirit of our enterprise."

"I'll bet you anything he's never even met Jones. He's just doing this because he likes causing trouble."

Pavel, who was sitting close by, suddenly threw his arms wide and erupted into a passionate speech. When it ended, Peter turned back to Neil and said, "Don't you think he has a point? This is how police states get started."

"Y'know, given that we're talking about the Dreamy Davy Jones Fan Club…I don't think we're in danger of falling into totalitarianism anytime soon," Micky said. "Just a crazy hunch."

Harvey shrugged and said, "Well, I'm with Pavel. I say we let this guy stay."

"So I guess…going by the mood of the gallery, I'm in," Eddie said. It wasn't a question.

"Now hold on a minute there, Slick," Mike said. "This is Peter's gig, and I think he oughta have the final say. You sure you want to let this guy in, Pete?" He pulled Peter close and muttered, "He kinda puts me in mind of a rat terrier I used to know."

"Me too," Peter agreed. "I think it's the ears."

Neil looked hopefully at him, but Peter had to raise his shoulders apologetically. "But…I think we _have_ to let him in. It's just not really fair otherwise."

"So I'm a member?" This time it _was_ a question, and he smiled triumphantly at Peter's nod. "Don't worry," he told Neil with a sunny smile, "I won't hold your attempt to blackball me against you. Aren't you going to sit down? Don't feel you have to leave on my account."

Neil's nostrils flared, and he dropped down onto the couch defiantly. "Why would I need to leave? I don't have anything to hide. After all, I'm only here" –

"For your sister. Yeah. You said that."

"Of course," Mike said suddenly, not to anyone in particular, almost as if he were thinking out loud, "Before we swear anybody new in, we oughta revisit that rule…you remember, Pete? The one that says that anything that happens in this here club stays within these four walls." He abruptly directed a sharp glance at Eddie, who held up both hands and said, with a grin, "Oh, believe me – I'm not the one you need to worry about."

Actually, there was no such rule, but looking at that wide, careless smile, Peter was suddenly glad Mike had instigated this new directive.

Eddie didn't seem at all quelled though, looking around at the others and asking, "So…has anyone got a photograph of this Jones kid? Just to jog my memory of what we're trying so desperately to get over."

* * *

Maybe Peter was overstating the case, when he said that things started to go downhill then. It wasn't that Eddie Carey was a bad person, really. He was funny, and smart – and even if it was the kind of smart that made Peter feel extra stupid and uncomfortable, well…it wasn't like he could _help_ that.

Mostly Eddie seemed happy to go along with whatever the others were doing –though sometimes, Peter doubted his commitment to overcoming his feelings for Davy (and sometimes he really _did _wonder whether Eddie had ever even met Davy, despite Pavel's indignant denials).

So even if Eddie sometimes had a way of twisting Peter's words and turning them into things Peter didn't mean, well…that was only sometimes. And even if he made Pavel and Harvey laugh whenever he did that, Neil always sat ramrod stiff, and never even cracked a smile, just stayed unswervingly focused on Peter – which made him feel a little better.

Still, there was no denying that the tone of the club definitely changed with Eddie's arrival. Mostly, Peter attempted to ignore it by focusing on their ultimate goal – getting over Davy.

He tried and discarded a lot of different ideas – personally, he liked the chanting best, but Neil said it made him feel self-conscious. Eddie jittered in his seat way too much for anyone to be able to achieve a proper meditative trance, and Mike immediately put a halt to Peter's tentative plans to try acupuncture. And while Micky certainly threw himself into the role of psychiatrist with relish, borrowing several of Davy's false moustaches and carrying around a pipe which he periodically filled with bubble mixture – Peter just didn't know if he could trust any of his diagnoses.

Which brought him to his latest idea.

"You really think everyone painting portraits of Davy is going to help them move on?" Mike asked, dubiously, as around him, the club members daubed industriously, focused on their easels.

"Art is very therapeutic," Peter reassured him. "We take all our feelings for Davy, and put them on the canvas. And then, when they're on the canvas…they're not inside us any more."

"Hey – Davy doesn't look like random swirls of colour…not unless you've been smoking something stronger than my pipe," Micky said, scrutinizing Eddie's piece.

"It's abstract," Eddie said.

"Yeah – because you don't even know what Jones looks like," Neil muttered, smearing more brown paint on his own work.

"I'm pretty sure he's not cross-eyed," Eddie remarked, with a telling look at Neil's own piece.

Neil stopped painting, frowning at his canvas, but Peter laid a hand on his shoulder and told him, "I like the quality of light in yours."

"Thanks," Neil said. "I just used a lot of white paint."

Pavel leaned over Harvey's shoulder, pointed at something on his canvas, and launched into a detailed observation that made Harvey duck his head and say, shyly, "I didn't think anyone would notice that. Thanks, Pavel."

Mike shook his head as if to clear it. "Look – Pete, your idea is sound…my problem is, what do we do if…"

"If…?" Peter prompted him.

Mike beckoned him and Micky closer and then said, in a low tone, "Listen, I'm just afraid if I say, 'What do we do if Davy walks in?' – Davy's gonna walk in."

Peter smiled and shook his head. "Oh no, Davy's on a date. He's going to be gone for hours."

Just then, Davy walked in, hand-in-hand with a pretty blonde girl.

Micky laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and advised him, "Pete – never underestimate the lure of a cheap narrative shortcut."

"Janice, these are my friends, Mike, Micky and Peter," Davy said, initially oblivious to the panic that suddenly pervaded the Pad, as he ushered his date inside. "And these are," he tilted his head at the sight of Pavel and Harvey. "…I don't know who they are, to be honest."

Just then, his eyes flicked to Harvey's portrait. He frowned and his eyes slid to Pavel's canvas. Mike winced and closed his eyes, Micky dropped his head onto Mike's shoulder, and Peter just stood there, fingernails digging into his palms, an awful sinking feeling in his stomach, like it had suddenly turned into quicksand.

Davy's eyes flicked from artist to artist, portrait to portrait in confusion. When he got to Neil (after his initial jump of surprise) he recovered himself enough to ask, "What are you doing here?"

Davy's girl seemed to catch on quicker than he did. "You have to come in, Janice – the view is spectacular!" She delivered a ringing slap to his cheek, cried, "Egotist!" and marched right out the door.

Davy rubbed his cheek, then took two steps after her, calling, "Janice, wait, I can explain!" before his face fell as he realised, "…well, actually, no, I can't." He turned back to Peter, Mike and Micky and said, "Could anyone fill me in on what's going on? Why is the Pad full of people painting portraits of me…and random swirls of colour?"

"It's abstract," Eddie informed him. He got to his feet and walked all around Davy. "So you're Davy Jones?"

"I was this morning," Davy said. "And who might you be?"

Eddie ignored him in favour of shaking his head and whistling. "You _are _cute. The guys told me, of course, but…turns out you were definitely worth the wait."

Davy frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Eddie looked at Peter in a kind of amazed amusement, mouth stretched into that wide smile. It suddenly made Peter feel sick. "You mean he doesn't _know? _Well, that's just unproductive. What're you waiting for? He's pretty small – worse case scenario, he probably wouldn't even hit you that hard."

Davy shifted on his feet, beginning to look annoyed. "D'you want to say that again – to my fist this time?"

Eddie turned to Neil. "Well, I can sure see why _you _like him."

"Would someone please tell me what's going on here?" Davy asked, addressing himself to the other Monkees. "Who are all these people, and why are they painting pictures of me?"

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but before he could explain, Micky said, suddenly, "Happy birthday!"

"What?"

"This is – for your birthday! Right guys?" Micky's laugh sounded forced as he looked from Mike to Peter.

"Oh," Mike said. "Oh! Yeah! I mean – we all sat down and thought, 'Well, what do you get the boy who has absolutely nothing,' and uh – this here is what we came up with! Happy birthday!"

Davy's frown deepened. "So…for my birthday present, you hired a bunch of amateur painters to paint terrible pictures of me?"

"Well, first we tried to get some professionals – uh, Andy Warhol, Vincent Van Gogh, Georgia O' Keeffe…but Warhol wanted more Monet than we had to give – geddit?" He cleared his throat when Davy just kept looking at him with that line in between his eyebrows. "And the others were too busy being famous. Or dead."

Davy nodded a little absently, before saying, "…but it's not my birthday for months."

"Well…can you think of a better surprise?" Micky chanced.

It was clear that Davy wasn't buying it, and Mike sighed, before stepping forward. "Look, Davy, the thing is" –

Peter laid a hand on his arm to stop him. After all, Mike _had_ warned him, the very first day he'd found out about the club…and Peter had chosen to persist with it. It was his organization and his decision, and that meant it was his job to face the consequences and tell Davy.

"Are you sure?" Mike asked him in a low tone, and Peter nodded. Then he looked straight into Davy's warm, confused eyes, and said, simply, "These are my friends."

Davy blinked. "All right. But why are they painting pictures of me?"

Eddie jumped in. "We're just your regular old Lonely Hearts Club. Except we're _all_ seeking short, dark and handsome." In case Davy still didn't get it, Eddie elaborated, "Peter's our President, and we all think you're one choice cat." He raised his eyebrows boldly at Davy.

Peter could see the realization beginning to dawn on Davy's face, only to wink abruptly out of existence, as he…began to laugh.

"All right," he said, turning back to Peter. "You're having me on. You've got to be. I've never seen him before in my life," he jerked a thumb at Eddie. "Or him, or him, or…well, him I've seen," he had to admit as his eyes passed over Neil, sitting with his head down and his back hunched. "But I'm pretty sure he's not looking for a date."

His smile slowly vanished as he looked at Peter, who couldn't return it. He blinked once, twice, then, "Hang on a minute," he said slowly, as he pivoted back to Harvey and Pavel. "I _have _seen you before. You're that waiter who steals people's napkins. And you – you work at the grocery store. You always give me a free bag of satsumas."

He turned back to Peter, eyes searching. "But, even if it…" He stopped. "…it still doesn't make any sense."

"All this, and modest too," Eddie remarked.

This seemed to be the breaking point for Mike, who loudly called out, "All right! Meeting adjourned! That's all folks – remember not to crowd the exits as you leave."

Davy didn't seem to register the bodies passing and filing out the door of the Pad. He just kept staring at Peter with that same confused, questioning look on his face. Peter, for his part, was powerless to look away.

"Well," Mike said eventually, in the sudden silence. "Now you know everything."

"I'll just bet you've got a bunch of questions, huh?" Micky added.

Davy finally looked away from Peter. "Just one, actually," he told Micky.

"Fire away," Micky told him. "And we'll answer it."

"Why did you guys decide to set up a Lonely Hearts Club in the Pad?"

Mike looked at Micky. Micky looked at Mike.

"Well…" Micky said.

"See…" Mike began.

"It's not really a Lonely Hearts Club," Peter said, causing Davy's eyes to snap back to him. He cleared his throat. He didn't feel _uncomfortable_ under Davy's eyes – because they were Davy's eyes, and he liked Davy's eyes, but he did feel…awkwardly laid bare in a way he usually didn't beneath that gaze. "It's actually called Name Pending."

"Name Pending?" Davy repeated.

"We couldn't think of a good title," Peter said. "It used to be the Davy Jones Discussion Group, but then our focus switched from discussing you to trying to get over you."

"Oh," Davy said. "But…why are you helping strange guys get over me?"

"They seemed like they could use the help," Peter said simply.

Davy digested this. Finally, to the relief of all three, he nodded. "All right. I suppose that makes sense…well, a _kind_ of sense," he amended, scratching his head. He still had that little frown between his eyebrows. Peter wanted to smooth it out.

"Well…there you go," Mike said. "That pretty much explains it."

"And to think – when you came in here to find a bunch of guys painting your portrait, you thought there was something weird going on," Micky told him.

Davy didn't respond for a moment, just stood there chewing his lip, apparently deep in thought.

Micky and Mike exchanged looks. Peter tried to catch his eye, because the stripped bare feeling was better than this wall of remoteness – but Davy stared fixedly down at the floor.

"Uh – Davy? Come in Davy?" Micky tried.

Slowly Davy's head came up. "I do have one more question," he said, in that same distracted tone.

"Well, come on – let us have it," Mike prompted, as Davy lapsed into silence again.

Davy faced them. "Why is _Peter_ the President of my club?"

Even though they all froze for the barest second, to Peter the moment seemed to stretch like gum.

"Hey – it's…Pete," Micky said finally. "Who else do you think would be dumb enough to get roped into that gig?"

Davy nodded, almost absently, but his eyes were thoughtful, and this time, under their gaze, Peter felt stripped right down to the bone.


	4. Chapter 4

"S'like I've been having this secret life," Davy mused later that night. "Except…it's so secret, _I_ didn't even know about it."

He still had that thoughtful, introspective look on his face, and his movements around their room, as he got ready for bed, were slightly abstracted.

Peter fidgeted, sitting on his bed, and said, "If you're not comfortable with it" -

Davy looked at him, frowning. "It's not that I…" he paused for a moment. "It's – if it was girls, I could understand. It's just – I never even thought about boys."

"Well, see, that's exactly why we had to set up the club," Peter told him, quite earnestly.

Davy blinked.

"But – if you don't like it…I'll stop it," Peter said, staring down at his hands in his lap. He really hadn't expected this kind of reaction, when Davy found out. But then again, he hadn't really thought ahead that far. Still, Davy's new distant, pensive manner was off-putting – like even though they were in the same room, they were now communicating through a thick wall of glass. It made him feel kind of lonely.

"No."

He looked up.

"I mean, if it helps…I don't _mind_," Davy trailed off, spreading his hands wide. "It's just…" he examined Peter, suddenly intent, "…you'd tell me, Pete, wouldn't you, if _you_…"

After the preoccupied demeanor of the last few hours, Davy's sudden focus was like a sudden shock of icy water.

Peter swallowed, and repeated, "If I…" through a mouth that didn't seem to want to form the words.

It would be all right, he knew. He would tell Davy, and it would be all right – he didn't have even the slightest doubt, because he _knew _Davy. And Davy would never be careless or rough with someone else's feelings, even if they weren't the kind of feelings Davy wanted. That was part of why Peter loved him.

It was just…even knowing that – it didn't do anything to make his feelings any less _unwanted_ by Davy, and it didn't make the words any easier to say.

But instead of pressing ahead and finishing the question, and forcing his feelings out into the open – Davy just looked at him for a long, long moment, and that intent gaze eased back into something more recognizable. Not quite _familiar_, because Peter was sure Davy had never smiled at him with that sort of careful kindness before. "Nothing," he said quietly. He shook his head a very little. "Just…forget about it, yeah? It's alright."

It wasn't like it was much of a secret…but he was letting Peter keep it anyway. All he could feel was _grateful_ - from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

And his heart just _sang_ with love for Davy…

...though only under its breath.

* * *

He'd never really thought about telling Davy. As far as he could see, it would be pointless. After all, Davy was never going to love him back, because he just couldn't, while Peter was going to keep on loving him, because he just couldn't _not_.

It was a stalemate.

Or maybe a checkmate.

Either way, it wouldn't really _change _anything.

Except.

In this (as in a dispiriting number of other things) Peter seemed to be wrong – because he hadn't even really confessed how he felt to Davy…but things between them still felt – off-balance. Different.

Not necessarily in a _bad_ way.

Though not in a _good_ way either.

Just…not the same. Which, now that Peter thought about it, was pretty much the definition of 'different.'

Davy just kept on treating him with that same careful kindness that had taken his breath away…only as incredible and wonderful as it had been in that moment when Davy had suddenly waived his half-formed question – it was a little more complicated as a way of life.

It put up a kind of…barrier – like that original wall of thick glass had been replaced by a wall of courtesy. But a wall was a wall, no matter what the building materials were made of, and it was hard to feel like Davy's friend, when Davy was treating him with the kind of deference he paid his great-aunt Millicent.

Mostly, Peter got the feeling that all Davy really wanted to do was find a busy street and help him across it.

He couldn't look at Davy as often as he used to, either. Mostly because Davy seemed newly aware of him, and any time his eyes came to rest on Davy, Davy tended to look at him with an enquiring smile. Or he'd turn to look at Davy – and find Davy was already studying him. It gave him the same feeling he got when he missed a step climbing the stairs.

* * *

"How's the group coming along?" Davy asked him one morning after a breakfast of leftover Crepes Suzette and steamed lobster with ketchup. There was a kind of innocuous politeness in the words that made Peter push his fork through the food on his plate, suddenly not very hungry anymore – though he couldn't have explained why.

"Oh, good!" he said, when he looked up. "It's – it's going good."

"Yeah," Micky agreed. "We can even trust some of them with safety scissors now."

"Many of 'em are fully functioning, valued members of society," Mike chimed in. He considered what he'd just said. "So they've got one up on us already."

"Well that's – good. Good," Davy said, before lapsing into silence. His eyes held Peter's though, and it made him feel, abruptly, that in spite of the strange new politeness, Davy wanted, just as much as he did, to find a connection.

He blinked, and Peter realised he'd probably been looking at Davy for too long. "Well, if there's anything I can do," Davy said.

"Nah," Micky told him.

Mike shook his head. "We've got kind of a system running now."

"Oh! That would be great!" Peter said.

Mike frowned. "Are you sure Pete?"

"Yeah. I mean, if you look at it from a certain angle…hasn't Davy already done more than enough?"

Peter said, "Progress is dependant on challenge. We don't want to plateau or stagnate at this juncture, or we could wind up empty-handed."

Everyone stared at him, but the manual he'd picked up in the bookshop a couple of days ago had been surprisingly helpful when it came to marking progress. '_A Survivor's Story (Kill Or Be Killed)_' by Leon Hunter – had been most emphatic on the subject. Peter had been worrying about where he was going to find suitable game for the club to practice their survival skills on – but he guessed incorporating Davy fell under the same principle.

"I think including Davy in our sessions could add some much-needed stimulation as we move forward," he explained.

"See, that's exactly what I'm afraid of," Mike muttered.

"If you don't mind, of course," Peter told Davy, who shrugged and said, "S'only fair, right? I mean – I helped cause the problem. I should help fix it."

Peter frowned. "But it's not your _fault_ the guys are hung up on you."

Davy propped his chin on one hand, while he stirred the remains of his steamed lobster with the other. "They got hung up _because_ of me, didn't they? Sort of implies I might've had something to do with it."

Peter frowned at him, because that didn't jive with how Peter saw things at all. But Davy suddenly looked up at him with that determinedly helpful expression, like his dearest wish was to help Peter locate his missing spectacles and untangle his knitting – and the sudden distance this created made it impossible for Peter to pursue the topic.

* * *

"Well?" Eddie Carey asked. He tapped his foot against the ground. "I was told there was going to be a show."

"Just cool it – he'll start in a minute," Mike said.

Meanwhile, in the background, Peter and Micky tried to deal with Davy's sudden case of stage-fright.

"Are you ready?" Peter asked.

Davy surveyed the lack of a crowd. Pavel and Harvey sat chatting on the couch, while Neil had pulled a chair as far back as he could, and he sat, frowning ferociously at his knees, as if he would rather be anywhere else. Eddie, meanwhile, was standing front and centre, and only Mike's determined efforts were keeping him from getting even closer.

"I don't know," Davy said.

"Aw, come on," Micky encouraged. "I mean, I know it's not exactly Carnegie Hall, but look on the bright side – at least it's a bigger crowd than that gig we played last week."

"It's just – I don't know," Davy said, looking helplessly at Peter. "It feels a bit – strange."

Peter swallowed down his disappointment. "Well, if you don't want to do it, that's okay. I'll just tell the guys – I'm sure they won't mind."

"I wouldn't bet on that," came the sound of Eddie Carey's voice. A smirk curled through his words. "At the very least I'm going to have to demand a _personal_ apology."

No-one took any notice of him, except for Mike, who said, "Demand all you want – what you're going to _get_ is something very different."

"No," Davy said, "I _want_ to do it, I do. I just – it feels a bit uncomfortable, that's all."

"Well, if we're going to get this show on the road, you'd better find something to _make_ you comfortable," Micky advised.

Davy looked at them, then suddenly nodded and squared his shoulders, and took his position. With a last warning glance at Eddie, Mike grabbed his guitar and moved to stand behind him.

Peter cleared his throat and said, "I guess we're ready to begin." He smiled at Davy (who gave a queasy, funhouse mirror kind of smile in return), before surveying the club. Neil refused to look up, Pavel and Harvey quietened down, and Eddie tilted his head and appraised Davy openly.

"Just do your best to remember," Peter said, "that Davy's not singing to _you._" He nodded encouragingly, as Mike began to play.

It was clear that Davy was nervous, his voice shook a little, and his gaze flicked uneasily from person to person in the small audience. When his eyes reached Eddie (who stared at him unblinkingly) Davy slid off key for a few moments.

It made Peter's heart clench in sympathy, because Davy was so clearly ill at ease…but he was trying so hard anyway. As soon as the last notes of Mike's guitar died away, Peter started toward them to call a halt to proceedings –

– but just then, Davy looked at him, and it stopped him in his tracks. Davy seemed so…determined, a crease between his eyebrows. Then he turned back to Mike, and said, "Can we try that one again?"

This time, as Mike played the opening notes, Davy kept his focus squarely on Peter, and his voice came out clear and strong. After a couple of lines, though, he broadened his attention, bestowing some glances at the rest of the club. His voice didn't waver this time. But his eyes kept returning to Peter, and every time they did, this white-hot kind of feeling flashed through him.

It was funny, because Peter had warned everyone else that Davy wasn't singing to them – but every time Davy's eyes sought him out, that was exactly how it seemed to Peter. Only _more_. Like not only was Davy singing to him…but he was singing every word of the song _for _him, too. He found it impossible to look away from Davy.

He guessed that was what you'd call hypocrisy.

But apart from his own lapse, everything went well. Three songs into the set, and Harvey and Pavel managed to maintain an actual conversation – only glancing at Davy intermittently, and Neil never once looked up from his clenched jawed contemplation of his knees…which Peter guessed was victory of a sort.

Even Eddie Carey, who left no-one in any doubt of his all-encompassing interest in Davy, must have wavered in his attention at least a little, because after Davy had finished his last song, he leaned in close to Peter and murmured, "Looks like you could stand to follow your own advice." He regarded Peter narrowly. "I guess it's true what they say. Those who _can_, do…and those who _can't_…try to teach others."

Peter decided to take this as a triumph.

"Man, I thought it was going to be rough, at the start there," Mike said to Davy, as he took off his guitar. "But you really pulled out of that tailspin. Good going."

"I just took Micky's advice," Davy told him, before his eyes flicked to Peter for the barest moment, and he smiled. "I found something that made me feel more comfortable."

* * *

The first session incorporating Davy into the club had gone so well that no-one anticipated that disaster was lurking around the corner. But it was – wearing a scary mask and just waiting to yell, 'Boo!'

"This time, you're going to approach Davy," Peter said, gesturing toward the kitchen table, where Davy was sitting, "and you're going to hold a conversation."

"I like it already," Eddie Carey said.

He jumped as Micky pressed the red button on a remote control, unleashing an obnoxious buzzing noise.

"Ah-ah," he said, holding up his index finger. "Because this isn't just any conversation." He stopped. "Well, actually it is. A regular, normal, everyday conversation. And that means – no innuendoes, no pick up lines – and no physical contact. Or…" he pressed the button again, warningly.

"Okay," Peter said. "Who wants to go first?"

Although their interaction was beset with nervous pauses, Harvey managed to maintain several sentences of a conversation about restaurants, and even when Davy asked him, leadingly, "D'you know any good places to eat?"

He looked into Davy's eyes for a long time, but eventually, he swallowed and said, with bland professionalism, "I could give you some recommendations."

As he moved to stand, everyone clapped, and Pavel stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled in victory. Harvey went red, but he seemed pleased.

Pavel himself received a warning tap of the buzzer, when he reached out and tapped Davy's shoulder, but apart from that, he seemed to have no shortage of conversational topics – and according to Micky (who was following the subtitles very closely), it was all above-board.

Neil did surprisingly well too – and if Peter hadn't known how Neil felt about Davy…he never would have guessed. He steeled himself visibly before sitting down next to Davy, and the ease with which they fell into a regular conversation seemed to come as a surprise to him too. Of course, it wasn't until mid-way through that everyone realised that while Neil was talking about American football, Davy was discussing the distinctly more Limey alternative.

Peter smiled and nodded at Neil as he got up from the table, and Neil smiled back, ducking his head a little.

And then, Eddie Carey sat down next to Davy and everything went horribly wrong.

It didn't happen immediately, which somehow made it worse. They were all lulled into a false sense of security as he spoke to Davy with a kind of mocking respectfulness that, for Eddie Carey, seemed like it might be the closest thing he had to genuine sincerity.

However, via some tricky conversational twists and turns, all of a sudden, Davy was blinking at him as he said, " – _The Salty Watermelon_. Those are the best parties – completely wild, anything goes, man. I'd be happy to…show you the ropes, if you want?" And he laid a hand on Davy's arm.

Apparently, he'd gotten so engrossed in the conversation himself that the sound of Micky's warning buzzer, hastily and vigorously deployed, made him start.

"I told you," Neil said to Peter. "I told you there was no way he could take this thing seriously. I _told_ you it was all just a trick."

Eddie got to his feet, scraping the chair on the floor, and faced him. "Oh yeah. Because _you_ wouldn't know anything about tricks, or dishonesty, now would you? How's your sister these days? How's your _girlfriend_?"

Neil's mouth thinned into a straight line, and the Monkees, with the ease of long experience, readied themselves for trouble. Peter stepped in front of Neil, in an attempt to shield him (which was rather like a rock trying to shield a mountain), while Davy got to his feet, and Micky eyed the situation warily.

"We're not talking about that," Mike said, attempting to put the focus back where it belonged. "We're talking about Peter's exercise. Now – do you want to try again, or leave it for another day?"

This turned out to be a mistake, because Eddie Carey ran an impatient hand through his hair, stared up at the ceiling for a moment and then said, "Am I the only one who thinks this whole thing is a little self-serving?"

"Is he talking about the buffet?" Micky wondered, frowning at the small self-service area that had been set up using Harvey's leftovers.

"I'm talking about the fact that we're taking advice from the guy who shares a room and sleeps with Davy," Eddie said bluntly.

Peter felt himself go hot. The words were absolutely true, but there was some twist of insinuation in the way Eddie said the words, 'sleeps with', as if Peter were – well, doing things with Davy that were so far removed from possibility that he hadn't even thought of them. Until right now.

"Hey – there's no need to get personal," Davy said with a frown.

"I'm just saying, it's a little 'do as I say, not as I do,' for me," Eddie defended. "I mean – is this a help-group, or is it just a way to beat out the competition?"

"Now there's no call for" –

"Pete would never" –

"That's just not true" –

The other Monkees immediately came to Peter's defence, but they were silenced by Neil, who launched past Peter to stand in front of Eddie Carey. Furiously, he poked his index finger into Eddie's chest and said, "Lay off Pete. He's got it harder than anyone. He has to share a room with the guy he's in love with – who doesn't love him back. Peter's a _hero._"

Everything went quiet. Even Eddie Carey seemed shocked, mouth open in a little 'oh' of surprise.

Peter's eyes met Davy's in a kind of terrible compulsion. Davy looked frozen, and Peter felt like…like…he didn't know. Numb. Awful.

Micky cleared his throat. "Well, it's not exactly the battle of the Alamo, or anything," he said, with a brittle kind of brightness. "I mean…you probably won't be reading about him in the history books or anything…"

Abruptly, Davy moved, pushing past Eddie Carey and around the kitchen table. The bedroom door shut behind him.

Mike took a breath. "All right. _Out_. Not you," he said, catching Micky by the arm as he turned to leave with the rest of the club.

"I'm sorry," Neil said urgently, grasping Peter's arm. "I didn't mean to – it just came out. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Peter told him. He couldn't stop staring at the closed bedroom door.

Neil hovered indecisively for another couple of seconds, before leaving.

"You all right?" Mike asked, coming to stand next to him.

Peter nodded, continuing his staring session with the bedroom door.

"You sure? That was…kind of heavy," Micky said.

"It's going to be fine," Peter said. But for the first time, he wasn't entirely sure he believed that.


	5. Chapter 5

Inside the room, Davy was sitting on the bed, and when Peter came in, he didn't move – just studied him in silence for a long moment. Peter realised one of his own hands was still gripping the doorknob, as if for support.

"It's true then," Davy said finally, and looked away.

It hurt when he did that, like he hadn't just looked away – as if he'd taken something necessary from Peter, like air. But in another way, it made it easier for him to speak, when he wasn't under those searchlight eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. It seemed like a good place to start.

Davy kept staring at the wall. "You're…" he shook his head, and trailed off.

It felt like something inside him was being compacted, compressed smaller and smaller.

"I – thought…maybe you already knew," Peter tried.

Davy finally looked at him again. "A crush," he said. "I thought – a crush, maybe. But _this_…" He stared at Peter helplessly. "Pete, I don't know what to do with this."

He didn't sound angry or disgusted – but Peter couldn't even spare a second to feel glad about that. Firstly, because it never occurred to him that Davy _would_ feel either of those things when faced with the fact of Peter's unrequited love – and secondly, because Davy's reaction was much, much worse.

Because he sounded…tired. Defeated.

In a million years, Peter would never, ever have predicted this. He'd never imagined that Davy would be _happy _to find out that Peter loved him, of course. But if he _had_ thought about it, he would have supposed that Davy would be – regretful. Gentle. That he would let Peter down easily – which wouldn't even be necessary, because it wasn't as if Peter had any expectations…but Davy was probably too nice not to want to, well, acknowledge Peter's feelings somehow.

He never, ever would have thought that learning about his feelings would _hurt _Davy. But there he was, sitting at the end of his bed, looking like he'd just been told he had an painful and incurable disease.

Panic made Peter lurch forward a couple of steps. "It doesn't have to change anything," he said – though he wasn't sure if this was a plea or a promise.

"You – you _love_ me," Davy pointed out, with barely a hitch. "How can that not change anything?"

"It never has before." Even though he'd meant it as a reassurance, Davy looked as if Peter had just kicked him in the ribs. He actually flinched. Anything else Peter had planned to say died on his lips.

"Right," Davy said in a colourless voice, and flopped backwards on the bed. Peter stood, indecisive for a while, but Davy seemed engrossed in his study of the ceiling and he didn't move even when Peter exited the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Davy didn't come out of their room for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Dinner was a morose affair. Peter could barely choke down a spoonful of foie gras, while Mike stirred and stirred his vichyssoise into a frenzy. Micky kept absently stuffing fettucine Alfredo into his mouth until his cheeks were bulging out like a hamster's.

"Oh, come on now," Mike said finally, setting down his spoon. He put his hand on Peter's arm. "Look – I know he's taking it kind of hard, but – give Davy some time. I'm sure he'll come around."

"Mmm mmf gmm fsshhaw gnum!" Micky said in apparent agreement, showering them both with sincerity. And fettucine.

"Just give him some time," Mike repeated, squeezing Peter's forearm supportively.

Afterwards, Mike braved the closed bedroom door, which seemed to grow larger and more forbidding the more Peter looked at it, like an unwelcoming, wooden Siberia.

Mike stayed in there a long time – so long that Micky threw an arm around his shoulders and said, "Aw, c'mon Pete – you know what they say. A watched door never…boils. Maybe because it's a door, and not a kettle…but the principle's the same." He stopped at the look on Peter's face, and offered, "German chocolate cake?"

When Mike _did_ come out, he sighed at the sight of Peter, who was now waiting right outside the door, sitting with his back against the side of the refrigerator, before half-smiling reassuringly. "It's going to be okay," he said, crouching down on his haunches. "For real. Just" –

"I know," said Peter. "Give it some time." He tried to smile back.

* * *

So, that night he borrowed a blanket from Micky and slept on the couch.

He wouldn't have thought he'd be _able_ to sleep – but it turned out that unexpected traumatic incidents beat counting sheep any night of the week. Which was good, because Peter always found counting sheep more stressful than relaxing – since they all looked the same it was hard to keep an accurate tally, plus he didn't have any real means of providing for them long-term, which always made him worry. Luckily for him, he'd never had to count sheep during shearing season.

But tonight, the blow up with Davy had wrung him out, and misery sent him spinning into unconsciousness almost immediately.

When he woke up it was dark and a tall figure was looming over him.

"Ah!" he cried, fighting the blanket as he tried to get up.

"Ah!" the dark figure cried, jumping backwards – and as Peter finally managed to wrestle himself into a sitting position, the figure shrank and resolved itself into Davy.

"What are you doing here?" Davy asked, and Peter blinked because he was pretty sure that was his line.

"Sleeping," he said.

Davy blew out a breath. "Yeah, I can see that. _Why_ are you sleeping on the couch?"

"It's more comfortable than the floor," Peter said.

It was hard to tell in the dark, but he thought there was a certain disbelieving quality to Davy's regard. Finally, carefully, he said, "Why aren't you sleeping in our room?"

Peter played with the blanket still draped over his lap. "Mike said – you need some space, so…" he shrugged awkwardly.

The silence stretched out for so long that he risked a look at Davy, who was standing absolutely still in front of him. "I don't want you to sleep on the couch," he said, with sudden, machine gun fire rapidness. Then, more slowly, "Unless – unless _you_ want to."

"I thought…after what happened…"

Davy raised his hands slightly, only to drop them by his sides again. Eventually, he said, "I don't…" Peter could hear him swallow. "I want you to do – what _you _want."

He sighed and sat down next to Peter. "What do you want?"

It was a disarmingly honest question.

"I want – I want things to go back to how they were," Peter admitted, very quietly.

Davy didn't turn his head. He stared out across the darkened Pad and said, "I don't think I can do that."

The room suddenly seemed a lot darker. And airless.

"Sorry," Davy said. "It just – it makes me feel like a bad person."

Peter frowned. "You're not a bad person."

Davy concentrated on lacing his fingers together in his lap.

"You're not_,_" Peter insisted. This denial didn't seem to have any effect though, so he licked his lips and said, "I wouldn't – I wouldn't love you if you were a bad person." Davy already knew, after all, so it wasn't like he had anything more to lose.

This seemed to Peter to be indisputable proof of Davy's goodness, but Davy's shoulders slumped even further. "Oh yeah. Because not even noticing that someone's hung up on me shows I've really got my head on straight." He laughed – a peculiarly joyless sound. "And you're not even the only one. You 'ad to start a _support group_ because of me."

"But…you're a great guy. That's why so _many_ people are crazy about you," Peter said. He seemed to be taking an entirely different view of the situation than Davy, and all the evidence that seemed to him to highlight Davy's innate decency and niceness and – and attractive smile, somehow seemed to assume a much darker perspective for Davy, as if he were examining the evidence through sunglasses.

"Yeah. That's me. Davy Jones…so great I put people into therapy."

Before, Peter might've reached out, put a hand on Davy's shoulder, touched his arm. But now, it struck him that he _couldn't _do that. Not now, and maybe not ever. Because all of that was from _before_, and where they were currently living was clearly marked _after_.

He forced himself to swallow down the big, rock-like lump of disappointment lodged in his throat, and tried to find some words to comfort Davy. But all he could think of to say was, "Well, no-one in the group is licensed, so I don't know if it technically qualifies as therapy…"

Going from what he could see of Davy's face in the dimness, he didn't think that it helped much.

"I can't pretend I don't know," he said, suddenly looking straight at Peter. There was a determined crease in between his eyebrows. "I mean – it was bad enough when I _really_ didn't know. Pretending…that'd be even worse. I can't do that."

The words were heavy and uncompromising. Peter almost imagined that he could hear them thunking against the ground as they came out of Davy's mouth.

He took a breath.

Because – there it was.

Obtuse as he could be about things (and Micky had once said, "Man, when it comes to understanding stuff, you always takes the long way round, don'tcha Pete?") but there was no way, even for him to mistake this.

Everything had changed, and there was no going back to how things had been.

He sat there, and tried to feel that, to _understand_ it. But he couldn't. It was too big to take in. There was an icy slab of what he assumed was grief in his chest. It made his fingers feel numb, and he stared down at them as Davy got to his feet.

He waited, but Davy didn't leave, just stayed standing in front of him. Finally, he cleared his throat, as if he expected something from Peter. Peter couldn't imagine what though. His mind was an aching blank.

"Aren't you coming?" Davy asked.

Peter looked up at him. "Where?"

"Bed," Davy said. "Come on. Don't…don't sleep out here, like" –

He stopped. "Unless you want to," he said, eyes focused on Peter's. Then he turned and headed toward the bedroom, without looking back to see if Peter was following him.

Slowly, Peter got to his feet. He dropped Micky's blanket on the couch and watched as Davy disappeared once more into their bedroom.

The door shut behind him…but not fully. Peter could see that Davy had left it just slightly ajar.

He hoped that meant that even though things had changed…there was still something to salvage.

He stepped forward.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning when he woke, Davy was already gone.

He sat up, and looked at the empty bed across from him for what seemed like a very long time, feeling disoriented and alone.

He finally got dressed and wandered out into the kitchen, where he sat at the breakfast table and slowly pulled a slightly stale croissant into flaky strips that tasted like nothing when he finally put them into his mouth.

Mike, sitting opposite him, watched in silence for a while before clearing his throat and saying, "Y'know…when you think about it, love's kind of a big responsibility."

Peter looked up, frowning.

"I mean," he continued, "You lay your heart in front of someone's feet, and – they've got a kind of duty not to stomp all over it."

Peter continued to frown.

"What he's trying to say," Micky said from behind him, making them both jump, "is that Davy's got it into his head that he's been doing a tarantella on top of yours."

Peter frowned, but since he was already frowning, he just ended up doing it harder. "What?"

"Look, it's just that love's…a lot to put on someone out of nowhere."

"But I don't expect anything from Davy," Peter said.

"But see, that's part of the problem," Mike told him. "Davy's your friend. He cares about you, and you can't expect him to all of a sudden _not_ care that you're pining away for someone who just can't return your feelings." He stopped. "It's just that when that someone is _him_, well, it makes everything a lot more complicated."

"Vy, I'd say ve are lookink at a probable case of disassociative identity disorder. At ze very least, ve can expect some generalized anxiety and intermittent displays of pathological guilt and shame," Micky said, stroking the false beard he'd hastily stuck on. He put his pipe in his mouth and blew a pensive stream of bubbles past Peter's nose.

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Mike said, directing a skeptical look toward the hastily assembled Freudian across the table. "But it's an awkward situation. I mean – put yourself in Davy's place," he advised. "How would you feel?"

"Shorter," Peter hazarded. Then, at the look on Mike's face, he hastily changed his answer to, "More English?"

Mike sighed. "Just – try not to worry too much about it. These things have a way of working themselves out."

* * *

The club meeting that afternoon began as a funereal affair. Micky had tried to convince him to cancel, but Peter really didn't want to. It already felt like he was adrift on an unfamiliar, unfriendly sea. The club was the only thing keeping him afloat. At least it gave his pining a higher purpose.

Neil crept in first, ashy-faced and full of mumbled apologies. "I didn't sleep last night," he said. "I just – man, I kept thinking about you and Jones, and – what I said. I'm so sorry."

Peter managed a smile. "It's okay," he said.

He sagged in relief. "I thought you'd hate me for sure."

"It's not like you said anything that wasn't true," Peter said. He smiled and shrugged a little. His shoulders felt heavy.

Neil regarded him carefully. "Yeah, but…is Jones hassling you about it? I can talk to him, if he is."

"Or you could try _not_ talking for a change, and sit down over there instead," Micky said. He held up both hands at the expression on Neil's face and said, "It was just a suggestion."

Harvey, Pavel and Eddie arrived together, slipping in with a quiet restraint that contrasted sharply with their normal boisterous entrances into the Pad.

"We didn't know whether we should come or not," Harvey said. He had a hat in his hands and he fed the brim through his fingers nervously.

"Speak for yourself," Eddie Carey said. "I wanted to see the fallout." His eyes darted around the Pad, noting Davy's absence, before coming back to Peter. The corners of his mouth tipped upwards ruefully. "So – you finally scared him off, huh?"

Neil attempted to get to his feet, while Micky and Mike, who flanked him like sentries, each seized a shoulder and pressed down, returning him to a seated position.

"Relax," Eddie called to him, with a roll of his eyes. "Believe it or not, I'm trying to be nice. I'm sorry, kid," he said, returning his attention to Peter. "If it's any consolation, it took a lot longer than I woulda thought. He must've actually liked you."

The worst thing was, Peter thought that Eddie Carey really _was_ trying to be nice. He just wasn't very good at it. It felt like he was stabbing Peter in the chest with his bluntly wielded kindness.

He swallowed and said, "We should get started."

Mike and Micky exchanged glances. "Don't you want to wait another couple of minutes?" Mike asked. "You know…just in case?"

Peter shook his head. In his mind's eye, he could still see Davy's empty bed. "We should probably just begin," he said.

When everyone was seated, he passed out sheets of paper. "I think we need to" –

He stopped because everyone's attention was suddenly clearly focused behind him. He turned.

Davy was standing in the doorway. Peter blinked at him.

He hesitated for a moment, before striding into the Pad. "Sorry," he said, in a voice that might have passed for normal to anyone who didn't know him as well as Peter. "Am I late?"

Absently, Peter shook his head. He tried very hard not to stare at Davy as he crossed the floor. "No," he said. "Um. We were just about to start, actually. It's stress-reducing origami day." He held out some paper.

"All right," Davy said, but he didn't take the sheet Peter was proffering. Instead, he said, "D'you think you've got time for a warm up first?"

"A warm up?" Peter repeated. Davy was standing there, right in front of him, and that was an unequivocally good thing…but trying to make sense of what he meant, and trying to hear what Davy was _really_ saying beneath what he was _actually_ saying…was like trying to untangle knotted string.

Which didn't necessarily mean anything – it wasn't like this was the first time Peter'd ever got his wires crossed. Still…

"Yeah," Davy said. He turned and nodded at Mike, who stood and cleared his throat, and announced, "This exercise is called – Removing the Rose Coloured Glasses. Observe."

Micky came to stand next to Davy. His right hand clasped his left, and he wore a fatuous expression on his face.

"See sometimes, when we look at people, we don't see them how they really are. We build them a pedestal, and we put them on it. Like _so_."

He motioned to Micky, who gushed, "Gee Davy, you're just so cute and sweet and groovy." He looked down at the ground, then peeped from behind lowered eyelashes.

"And that's maybe what's been happening here. You all have built Davy up into some kind of ideal. But that's never going to make you happy because – a fantasy isn't real. And maybe, if you looked at Davy – _really_ looked," he emphasized, "You'd find that he's not even what you want."

He raised his eyebrows at Micky, who blinked appealingly at Davy and said, "You sure are the greatest." He played with his fingers. "But…if there's one little thing that bothers me about you – oh, forget it."

"No – go on," Davy said, while Mike narrowed his eyes and said, "Yeah, Mick. Go on."

"Well, if you insist," Micky said, batting a hand demurely. "I guess…you _could _stand to be a _little _more punctual." He tilted his head to the side. "And, by the way, when are you going to get a haircut? And a real job?" He crossed his arms, and tapped a foot impatiently. "You know, now that I think about it, you're just a feckless troubadour who wouldn't know _real_ love if it broke a guitar over your head!"

He dramatically turned his back on Davy and walked away, head held high.

A smattering of confused applause followed him.

"You see what we're getting at?" Mike said.

"I think so." Peter frowned. "I can't believe I never realised that Micky had a crush on Davy too." He patted Micky's shoulder. "You're doing really well. Openness and honesty are key steps to getting you the help you need."

Micky stared at him. "But how are we gonna get you the help _you_ need?"

"All right! Who wants to try it?" Mike asked loudly, setting everyone back on track.

"I will," Neil said, raising his hand and getting to his feet. Everyone stared, because generally, Neil's reaction to being asked to participate was to drift towards the nearest corner, pressing his huge hands together and staring at his oversized feet.

"Are you sure?" Mike said. "I mean – you understood the question, right?"

"Yeah," Neil said. He darted an indecipherable look at Peter, then shrugged. "I want to do it."

"Well, all right then," Mike said, stepping aside.

"Step right up," Micky told him, then paused. "Uh – before we begin…you wouldn't hit someone smaller than you, right?"

"Look at him," Eddie Carey said. "If he followed that rule, he'd never be able to hit anyone at all."

Davy craned his neck upwards at the tall wall of football player in front of him, then winced and closed his eyes. He opened them a few moments later, as Neil continued to stand in front of him, mouth opening and closing silently, but otherwise unmoving.

"Why isn't he saying anything?" Mike wondered.

"I think the sound guy's on a break," Micky said.

Neil stared at Davy. Finally, in a tone of great revelation he said, "You're…short."

Davy blinked.

Neil frowned. "You're _really _short. Were you always this short?"

"Well" – Davy began, only to be cut off by Neil, who said, in a very different tone, "And you look at people, but you don't see them. People who are right in front of you – you don't see them. Not for real."

Peter frowned, because he didn't think it was quite fair to pin willful ignorance on Davy like a badge – as he recalled, Neil had been pretty focused on concealing his feelings under a blanket of terrifying rage. It was a good hiding place – before Peter, no-one'd ever figured it out.

But Davy seemed to take Neil's sudden condemnation without a qualm. He looked at him and said, "I'm sorry."

"Well there you go, that's a good start," Mike said. "That's" –

" – not good enough," Neil finished, mouth hard. "Because some of those people…they're better than you could ever be. And they _deserve_ better."

He looked around wildly, then grabbed a glass of water off the table, and flung it in Davy's face.

Peter immediately stepped between them. "Now that's not fair," he said, frowning at Neil. "You can't do that to Davy."

"Yeah," Mike said. "Let's keep this thing clean."

"Or at least dry," Micky noted.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked him – but Davy just wiped his face with his sleeve. Then he placed a hand on Peter's arm, gently pushing him out of the way, and calmly asked, "So – who's next?"

Harvey rubbed his hands on his pants before getting to his feet. "I guess I'll give it a shot," he said.

He shifted nervously on his feet in front of Davy, until a few encouraging words from Pavel made him say, quickly, "I still think you're pretty great, but – if I had to pick a fault" –

"And you do," Micky told him.

" – it'd be that…I spent the first evening we met dancing attendance on you, making sure you got everything you wanted, and you…just took that as your due."

Davy blinked at him. "Well…you _were_ my waiter," he said slowly.

"Yeah, but – I gave you the deluxe service. And what did you give me? Two bucks and a thank you."

"It was all I had," Davy said. "I would've given more but we hadn't played a gig in a while, and" –

"No excuses!" Harvey said, drawing himself up, snatching a glass of water off the table and pouring it over Davy's head.

" – I didn't really have a lot of money to spare," Davy finished, shaking water out of his eyes.

"Where are all those glasses of water coming from?" Peter asked, pulling Harvey away.

"Props?" Micky suggested.

Pavel stalked forward, and with eyes narrowed he subjected Davy to a four-minute speech complete with hand-gestures and chest-poking. At the end of it, there was a general stunned silence.

"I don't think we should get quite so personal," Peter said finally. "I mean, there's a line you really shouldn't cross."

"Yeah. I don't think I can ever look at you in the same way again," Micky told Davy, who said, weakly, "I really thought those satsumas were a free gift. I didn't know they had strings attached."

He squared his shoulders. "Well, anyway, I'm truly sorry I made you feel like I was rending your soul and using it for shoestrings." He whispered to Micky, "That is what he said, yeah?"

"Paraphrased, but yeah, that was the general gist."

Pavel took aim with a glass of water, only to be intercepted by Mike, who swiped it and said, "Thank you – I really needed that. I have this tickle in my throat like you wouldn't believe."

Undaunted, Pavel swung with his other hand. There was a crack as he connected with the side of Davy's face, and when he withdrew, Peter started toward him and cried in alarm, "Davy, I think you're bleeding – yolk."

Egg dripped down Davy's cheek. "At least it wasn't hard-boiled," he said. "Always did prefer them runny." He smiled a little at Peter, corners of his mouth just tilting up, and Peter hesitantly smiled back.

Pavel made another gesture in Davy's direction, but Mike caught his hands. "Uh-uh," he said sternly. "I think you've made your point. And I think that's enough for today."

"What about me?" Eddie Carey asked, unfolding himself from his chair.

"We've really got more than enough to clean up today," Mike told him, but Eddie said, "Don't worry, it won't take that long."

Davy spread his arms a little. "All right then," he said, quite steadily. "Let's hear what you've got."

But Eddie Carey didn't launch into an anti-Davy diatribe. On the contrary – he leaned close and confided, "I'm not going to follow the rules of your exercise. Are you surprised?"

"Not really," Davy told him, eyebrows barely raised.

"I want to do this instead." Eddie held out his hand, and when Davy finally, slowly put out his, Eddie clasped it between his own, and shook it, as if in congratulations. "I get it now," he said, conversationally. "I didn't before – not completely, but…I get it now. One hundred percent."

Peter didn't think he'd ever seen Eddie Carey look so sincere, so…soft. Even though he was still holding Davy's hand, it wasn't with that kind of defiantly upfront flirtatiousness he'd practiced from the start when it came to Davy.

And Peter realised that even if Eddie Carey had joined Name Pending (previously The Davy Jones Discussion Group) on a whim, he was probably going to leave it as hung up as a pair of pants.

It turned out that there really wasn't time for therapeutic origami after that, and while Mike and Micky ushered the group toward the door, Peter watched Davy pick bits of shell out of his hair in the kitchen.

"That was really nice of you," Peter said. He took a breath. "I'm glad you came to the meeting."

Davy half-smiled back. "Me too."

"I mean, I'm not glad people threw things at you – but I'm glad you're here."

Suddenly, Davy reached out, and for one strange moment, Peter thought he was going to take his hand. But instead, he pressed something into it. An egg. Peter looked down at it in confusion.

"Well," Davy said, expectant. "Go on. Take your best shot." And he braced himself.

"You want me to throw an egg at you?" Peter looked at him. "Why?"

"I don't know," Davy said. "Because I'm short. Or because I'm a lousy tipper. Or I use your soul as shoestrings." His eyes held Peter's, steadily. "Or because you love me and I don't give you anything back."

Peter stared at him. "You give me things," he protested. "That shirt" –

"That was from my aunt Marjorie and it was too big for me. It doesn't count."

"You're my friend. You give me things," Peter repeated.

"Not what you want," Davy pointed out, too fast.

Peter rolled the egg around in his palm. "Friends is better," he said. "Friends is the best."

Davy's mouth quirked upwards, but the expression on his face was nowhere near a smile. "Best you can hope for, right?" he said, voice quiet.

Peter didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to disagree – he just knew that he did. So he did the only thing he could think of. He took Davy's hand and laid the egg in his palm.

"I don't want to do that," he said.

"Well," Mike interrupted, suddenly appearing and wiping his hand over his forehead. "Looks like we can expect another visit from Mr Babbitt soon."

"Is it rent time already?" Peter asked.

Mike shook his head grimly. "No. But I just bet he'll have something to say about Pavel and Harvey necking on our doorstep."

"But on the bright side, that water came in handy after all," Micky said, holding up the two empty glasses he held in his hands in demonstration.

* * *

It wasn't until much later that night that Peter managed to puzzle through his instinctive objection to Davy's reasoning. It wasn't just that he didn't have any desire to smash an egg over Davy's head – he really didn't think he had any _right_ to do it, either.

See, when Davy fell in love with a girl, odds were good that she felt the same. As a matter of fact, the odds were so good that the more suspicious might have thought they were rigged.

The point was, Davy was accustomed to reciprocity. He _expected _it. Like love required some kind of return as payment. Davy was used to being loved back, and he probably couldn't imagine a worse outcome in Peter's situation than _not _being loved back. Which was why he was taking the whole thing so hard.

But Peter's experience of love was very different. He knew that just because you decided you loved Davy Jones, it didn't mean the universe then owed you a Davy Jones.

That the universe had given him to Peter anyway, even if it was just as a friend, was the biggest, most unexpected gift he'd ever received.

It wasn't perfect, of course – but just because something was the best you could hope for instead of the absolute and unqualified best…didn't mean that it wasn't still the best.

He didn't know how exactly to put his thoughts into words, and he didn't even know if Davy was asleep, but lying in bed that night, he told the ceiling, "Friendship isn't nothing."

Davy didn't say anything, but he heard him shift in the bed, and when he glanced over, he could see the gleam of his eyes in the dimness. "It's not _everything_," Peter said, "but it's not _nothing_. So please don't act like it is – because that's worse. It makes me feel worse."

He didn't know how to explain that feeling – why Davy discounting his own friendship made Peter feel so distressed and small. He didn't know himself why being in love with Davy had never caused him any hurt as deep as Davy suddenly believing that their friendship couldn't possibly be enough. So in the end, he didn't even really try to explain it. Instead, he said, "You're my friend. So if you care about me, you'll see that, and you'll stop acting like it's nothing. Because it's not."

He could feel Davy's eyes on his face, hear him breathing in, and then out.

"All right," he said finally, slowly. "If you really mean it."

"I do," Peter said, and he tried to inject the words with every scrap of his wholehearted belief. "Friends is...friends is - better."


	7. Chapter 7

Things went, well, not precisely back to normal – Peter guessed there really wasn't any way for a friend to find out that you were hopelessly in love with him without things changing at least a little. Maybe if he'd used semaphore? Davy didn't understand semaphore. But then, neither did Peter, so it was a moot point.

Anyway, things slipped back into something that could be described as _adjacent _to normal. And that was – well, it wasn't what he _wanted _exactly, but he was used to that by now.

At least Davy had stopped acting like Peter's unrequited love was some kind of death sentence, and started treating him like a friend again – almost the same as before. Only an expert would've noticed the slight differences, the way his smile tended to soften out when he caught Peter's eye, the barely there awkwardness when they were alone in the bedroom.

Peter wouldn't claim to be an expert in anything (unless it was a necessary part of one of the zany schemes they tended to become entangled in), but if there was one thing he knew really, really well, it was Davy Jones – so this almost-normalcy still jarred him sometimes with its not-quite-rightness.

He didn't say anything else – what else could he have said? And anyway, the one thing that was very clear, was that Davy was _trying. _More than that, Davy was trying for _him. _And knowing that – knowing _that_ made up for anything Peter might have lost.

For his own part, he continued his strategy of not looking at Davy quite so much – especially when they were alone. He thought it might make Davy feel more at ease, help him forget the awkward fact that Peter was in love with him. Davy was trying so hard, it was only fair that Peter should make an effort too.

He knew it was the least he could do.

Even if he really missed looking at Davy.

* * *

In the end, the next big change to the club didn't come from Davy, but from the fact that Harvey and Pavel's doorstep indiscretion turned out to be more of a habit than a momentary deviation.

"I guess I should have seen it coming," Peter said. "They have so much in common. I mean, they're both young, both recovering from the same destructive relationship" –

"I dunno that I actually _destroyed _them," Davy objected. "It's not like I'm Godzilla."

Micky surveyed him intently. "You could maybe pass for a scale model."

" – and they both work in the food service industry. It was bound to happen eventually."

"It _was_ sorta like they were the only two in the room that time they started talking about fondue," Mike admitted.

"I think it's sweet," Peter said. And it _was_ heartening to see Pavel and Harvey step away from the dead end that was their crush on Davy, and start exploring a more promising avenue instead.

It made him feel like everything that had happened might have been worth it after all, if the club had succeeded in its ultimate aim, and finally broken Pavel and Harvey of their dependency on Davy Jones.

"Well, I'm just glad we can start getting back to normal," Mike said, leading the way from the kitchen to the living room, before stopping abruptly, causing a momentary pile-up. When everyone had sorted out who was who in the ensuing jumble of legs and arms, he pulled Peter aside and said, "Pete – who's that?"

Peter looked around before asking, "You mean the little old lady sitting on our couch?"

"Yes," Mike said. "That's exactly who I mean."

"Oh, that's Pavel's grandmother," Peter said. "I promised him I'd keep an eye on her while he and Harvey spent some time alone."

Pavel's grandmother regarded the sudden influx of long-haired weirdoes with deep suspicion and clutched her purse even tighter.

Micky began to wave at something that seemed to be in the distance.

"What are you doing?" Davy asked.

"Saying goodbye to normality," he said.

"Well, I think it's nice," Davy said. "It's good of you to help them out like that, Pete."

"It's positive reinforcement," Peter said. "I read it in my survival manual. If you don't take note of and adapt to changes in the environment, you run the risk of ruining your grain harvest."

"And I'll just bet Pavel and Harvey really appreciate the opportunity you're giving them to…shuck the corn," Micky said.

"It's nice," Davy repeated, and stepped forward, extending a hand to Pavel's grandmother. "Hullo," he said. "I'm Davy, and…"

Whatever else he'd planned to say was lost forever, as Pavel's grandmother blinked up at him, said something interrogative that ended with "Davy?" and then launched herself at him, smacking him full in the face with her purse.

For a little old lady, she sure had a lot of upper body strength, because it took all three of them to haul her off Davy, who lay stunned on the floor for a few moments before gingerly sitting up, rubbing his cheek.

"Either she thinks she saw a spider on Davy's face," Micky said, as he listened intently to a deluge of explanation from the old woman Mike was still pinning to the ground, "Or she's under the impression that Davy owes Pavel money."

"Of course. He told her I stole from him," Davy said, before carefully moving his jaw from side to side. He addressed himself to Peter. "And you're telling me that this is someone who _likes_ me?"

"He said you were the culmination of all his hopes and dreams," Peter said.

Micky made a face. "He's not exactly dreaming big, is he?"

"Now, I'm going to let you up," Mike said, "But you've got to promise that you're going to be on your best behaviour – and that means no more attacking Davy. Ma'am," he added politely.

Pavel's grandmother said something that Mike chose to take for assent, and he helped her to her feet. Peter did the same for Davy, still absently rubbing the right side of his face.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked.

"What has she got in that purse, anyway?" Davy said. "Rocks?"

Actually, her sizeable black handbag turned out to be full of gold ingots – a mix-up involving a rigged Canasta game and a mobster's mother that took several hours to straighten out. Luckily however, Pavel and Harvey's date ran long, and by the time Pavel returned to claim her, his grandmother was sitting peaceably on the couch, working on her cross-stitch.

* * *

The thing about Pavel and Harvey was that – as inspiring as it was that they had finally found true love (or at least a temporary case of infatuation), their newfound relationship changed the tenor of the club completely. And not just because Pavel and Harvey rarely attended meetings anymore.

"You have got to be kidding me," Eddie Carey said, stopping dead as he entered the Pad. He glared accusingly at Peter.

"Pavel has to work late," Peter told him.

"That explains _her_," Eddie said, gesturing at Pavel's grandmother. "But not _these._" He made a wild, sweeping arm-movement that encompassed the sudden abundance of senior citizens sprinkled throughout the Pad.

"Well, maintaining mental agility is very important in the elderly," Peter said. "We don't want Pavel's grandmother to stagnate."

"So you rounded up a bunch of old folks?"

"See, we thought having a bingo championship for one person would be a bit condescending," Davy explained from his vantage point leaning against the staircase. He ignored Pavel's grandmother's narrow-eyed look. "It all sort of spiraled from there."

"I'll say," Eddie Carey muttered, stepping back as an elderly couple foxtrotted past.

"I like it," Neil said, as another grandmother busily wound wool around his spread hands. He smiled across the couch at Peter. "I think it's nice."

"_You_ would," Eddie Carey said. "I, however, did not sign up for _this_. I came here for some Davy Jones appreciation – not to be some kind of convalescent caretaker."

"Actually, you signed up to _get over_ Davy," Peter corrected him. He moved a checker piece on the board in front of him, while Old Mr Murphy took a drag of his pipe, then coughed out an obscuring cloud of smoke.

Eddie shrugged. "Yeah, well, you don't know what you've got till it's gone. The point is – _this _isn't what you should be doing right now."

Peter surveyed the room, which had taken on a distinct tinge of peppermint and mothballs. "What should I be doing?" He frowned down at the checker-board, which seemed suspiciously empty of pieces in the wake of Old Mr Murphy's coughing fit.

A stooped woman whose curls contained a distinct blue hue began to measure Eddie Carey. As she prodded him into spreading his arms, he said, "You should start up a Lonely Hearts Club. For real this time."

"It's a nice idea," Davy said, arms still folded, "But I don't know if we should be getting the seniors too wound-up. Most of 'em are on medication already and they even got a little over-excited about the bridge tournament."

"I meant – for _us_," Eddie Carey said, hand sweeping from himself to Peter and Neil, who stiffened and said, "What do you mean, '_us'_?"

Eddie ignored him, becoming even more animated, "I mean – it worked for Pavel and Harvey, and it even fits the brief – getting over Davy. So…why not?"

"Well – there are only three of us," Peter said. Old Mr Murphy used his distraction as an opportunity to king his own pieces.

"So, we advertise," Eddie said, then, at the sudden, explosive noise from Neil, he rolled his eyes and added, "_Discreetly_, of course. Hand out some of those cards you made. But – we could do it. We could really make something here. What do you say?"

The stooped woman looped her measuring tape around Eddie Carey's waist as he waited for a response.

"I don't know," Peter said, considering it. "I mean, it sounds good, but…I really only started the club so that a couple of guys could get over Davy. I don't know if we're ready for something bigger. Especially now when we have Senior Citizens Tuesdays to think about." He frowned as a thought struck him, "And, Mr Babbitt wouldn't like it."

"Who cares about Mr Babbitt?" Eddie demanded.

"His family?" Davy suggested.

"And I like things the way they are now," Neil added, with a determined jut of his jaw.

Eddie Carey cast a dismissive glance at Neil. "Yeah, well, not all of us are looking for a hideaway." He pulled free of the measuring tape, earning a disapproving cluck from the little old lady. "I just can't keep my light under a bushel," he turned to Davy, "…no matter how cute you are." His eyes roamed over Davy's face for a few moments, while Davy remained impassive, no longer flustered by this frank appraisal.

Eddie smiled, then about faced and said to Peter, "I guess this is goodbye." He tilted his head. "You know, kid – sometimes, sometimes I actually believe that you're for real. I don't know whether that should make me happy…or scare me."

Peter nodded. "I get that reaction a lot."

Eddie threw a mocking salute Neil's way, then spun on his heel and began to leave. Only to pause in the middle of the Pad, as three grandfathers using canes hobbled across the floor. While he waited, he said, quite casually, back still turned to the others, "You know, sometimes I think the reason most people get so freaked out about guys like us isn't because they don't get it. It's because if they really let themselves think about it…they'd see just how easy it is."

The grandfathers passed, but instead of leaving, Eddie turned back and made eye-contact with Davy. "Remember – _The Salty Watermelon. _First drink's on me, if you ever change your mind."

Without waiting for an answer, he spun around and walked out of the Pad, door swinging closed behind him.

"Well…I guess that's it," Peter said. He thought about it. "I think we should take Eddie's decision to move on as a positive step. Change is a necessary part of self-development." He twisted to face Davy, who was frowning at the door, and didn't seem to hear him.

"I'm just glad he's gone," Neil said.

* * *

Davy seemed quiet and preoccupied for the rest of the evening – and even the fact that Pavel's grandmother (who had taken over the kitchen) pointedly didn't make enough stew for him didn't seem to register.

"Believe me, that's a blessing in disguise," Micky muttered to him behind his hand, as Davy stared absently down at his empty plate.

It still came as a surprise when later, as they were getting ready for bed, Davy suddenly said, "D'you think he was right? Eddie?"

"Maybe," Peter said, "But I think running a Lonely Hearts Club on the kind of scale he was talking about would be a little impractical."

"Not that. I meant – what he said about it being easy." Davy studied him, still frowning slightly. "Was it like that for you, when you…you know."

Peter blinked at the abrupt change from their usual strategy of not directly addressing the situation, but did his best to think through an answer to Davy's question anyway.

He didn't know if 'easy' was the right word…but then again, neither was 'difficult,' precisely. "It was just – always there," he said, finally, slowly.

Davy nodded at him, eyes intent. "You stopped looking at me. Why?" he said abruptly, as if this was a logical follow-on from Peter's statement. Maybe it was. Peter wasn't claiming to be au fait with this kind of conversation.

Peter swallowed. "I look at you. I'm looking at you right now."

"Not the way you used to. Before."

Peter managed to say, "I didn't think you noticed that."

"I didn't – until you stopped."

It wasn't the most logical of statements, but Peter understood what Davy meant, anyway. "I thought – maybe you'd prefer it if…I didn't, anymore."

Davy's eyes held his. "I didn't mind," he said, then quickly corrected it to, "I don't mind."

"You don't mind," Peter repeated.

"It's just looking," Davy said, with a small shrug. "Be a bit strange if I got bent out of shape about someone _looking _at me, wouldn't it? It's just looking," he repeated.

"Oh," Peter said. "I guess that makes sense."

Honestly, he didn't know whether it did or not – he was just feeling his way through this conversation and following Davy's lead…but it reminded him of the first conversation he'd ever had with Harvey. _I don't think Davy'd mind you looking at him, _he'd told him…and he'd been right. Hearing Davy actually _say _that, made him feel like his heart was expanding like an accordion.

"So – you can. If you want to. Look at me, I mean." Davy cleared his throat. "But if you don't want to – I mean, that's all right too. I'm not saying you _have _to look at me if you don't want t" –

"I want to look at you," Peter interrupted immediately. The truth was kind of like the bubbles in soda pop – it had a habit of fizzing up to the surface. "I like…looking at you."

"All right then." Davy stopped.

There were a few moments of silence during which no-one moved.

Then - "Do you want to do it now?"

"Now?"

"It's as good as time as any." Davy gave that little shrug again, that didn't look casual so much as stiff and oddly expectant.

Well, when he looked at it like that…it still seemed a little weird to Peter. But maybe, maybe this was how things were going to be from now on. And even if he had to make appointments to look at Davy…wasn't that better than not being able to look at him at all?

When he viewed it like that – it seemed almost like progress.

And…he _had_ missed looking at Davy.

"Okay," he said.

Davy took a step forward and then stopped. Peter didn't move at all. He didn't know if he was allowed to.

Peter cleared his throat. "Should I start?" he asked.

Davy nodded. "Okay."

He didn't really have a system – his gaze drifted from point to point arbitrarily, trying to take in everything, because it had been a while since he'd had the chance.

He noticed Davy had his fists clenched by his sides, like Peter's eyes might hurt him, and that he was shifting a little from foot to foot. His lips were pressed together, and he had an absorbed, intent look on his face, like he was trying to solve some problem. There was a line of tension running right through his body, and it made Peter want to touch him, stroke him gently from the top of his head to his toes, until he was completely relaxed and loose.

Carefully, Peter put both hands behind his back - just in case. And he kept on looking until finally it felt like his starving eyes were sated, and he could finally stop staring, and look away.

The room seemed very quiet, until Davy said, sounding unsure, "Okay?"

Peter looked back at him. He hadn't moved. "Okay," he agreed.

And it was – he guessed. He'd figured it would be slightly different, the way everything had been since Davy'd found out…and it was.

He'd thought it might feel kind of mundane, or detached, the way scheduled things usually were. Like making an appointment at the dentist's or booking a checkup at the doctor's. But it hadn't been like that at all. It had felt close and intimate, and _almost_ familiar, except not at all, because usually, looking at Davy made him feel content and peaceful, but this time, it had made his breath come fast, and sent a jumpy kind of energy skittering down his nerve endings – like at any moment he might have to run away (except there was nothing to run away from), or – or reach out (which he never, ever would).

Even when Davy switched off the light, and they lay down in their own beds, Peter still felt like his nerves were sparking in the dark. He checked under the bedclothes, and to his relief they weren't.

But they still felt like they were.

It took a while for the fireworks show inside his veins to be over, enough time for him to realise exactly what had made the experience so very different in the first place.

For the first time, while he was looking at Davy, Davy was looking right back at him.


	8. Chapter 8

Notes: Zambiano-liangiotica-loigisticolog-phobia is apparently the fear of short people. It is also a fun word to imagine Micky saying. It's not written with all the dashes but this site apparently hates the word, or has Hippo-potomon-stro-sesquipedalio-phobia.

* * *

And, well, that was pretty much that.

Pavel and Harvey didn't turn up for any more meetings, but he sometimes saw Pavel at the grocery store, and he had a couple of opportunities to talk to him when he was dropping off his grandmother at the Pad, though Pavel always seemed to be in a hurry and so their conversations were, by necessity, brief. He seemed happy though, and that made Peter happy.

Unlike her grandson, Pavel's grandmother was a more definite, and somewhat divisive presence in the Pad. She tended to barricade herself in the kitchen (quite a feat, considering that the main part of the Pad was open plan) and spent hours brewing things on the stove that made Micky go cross-eyed and walk funny when he tried them. She took offence when Mike politely refused one of her foul-smelling cigars. She made Peter an itchy sweater. And she had a habit of concealing herself in unusual spots, the better to make Davy jump whenever he caught her accusing eyes.

"I still don't know how she fitted into the bathroom cabinet. _I _can't fit in there," he said, shaking his head. "Gave me a nasty shock, it did. Bit weird to see _that_ when you're reaching for the shaving cream."

"That _is _weird," Micky agreed. "What were you doing with the shaving cream?"

Mike eventually went so far as to sit Peter down and clear his throat and say, "Pete…everything in the world's got its own special place. And that place is where it belongs. And – taking something out of that place where it belongs and tryin' to make it fit into a new place…well, that just doesn't _work_, most of the time. And sometimes, it can even be downright cruel. You understand what I'm getting at?"

Peter did. It was the exact same speech Mike had used to explain why he couldn't have a pet squirrel. But in this case, things ended much more happily, as it turned out that Pavel's grandmother was just visiting, and so she was in no danger of becoming a permanent resident at the Pad. Very soon it was time for her to return home, and after she departed, with cheek pats for all (more like cheek slaps, in Davy's case), the rest of the old folk dispersed too, like the white-haired seeds of a blown dandelion clock.

Eddie never did come back to the club, after his dramatic exit. Peter asked Neil once if he ever saw him around the college campus, but Neil just said, briefly, "Only if I don't look the other way quick enough," and changed the subject.

So in the end, Name Pending dwindled down to two members – though Neil didn't even seem especially interested in Davy any more. Now, when he didn't look at Davy it wasn't with that desperate neck-stiffening avoidance that seemed like it had hurt. Davy didn't even tend to hang around when Neil called. "Ever since he told me I was a horrible person and threw that glass of water on me, I've had this nagging feeling he doesn't care for me," he said.

But Neil still came to all the club meetings, so Peter guessed Davy wasn't completely out of his system.

"This is nice," he said once, as they tried to assemble a jigsaw made out of the discarded remains of other jigsaws. "I feel – better when I come here."

"You do seem less filled with aggressive brutality and misplaced rage," Peter agreed.

"You noticed," Neil said, with a shy smile.

Peter guessed that of the two of them, he was the only one holding the lifelong membership card to the Davy Jones Fan Club, but Neil didn't seem to be in any hurry to move on.

That was all right though. Peter was just going to enjoy it while it lasted.

* * *

When it came to Davy, it was like…he was living next-door to normal. There were times when the situation almost had Peter fooled, but then, every so often, something would happen, and he would recall that even though normal was just a wall away, it was still, well…a whole thick wall away.

Mostly, he tended to remember this whenever he looked at Davy. Before, looking at Davy had been like…looking at a work of art. Relaxing. Inspiring, in a sort of abstract way. Maybe Davy wasn't everyone's idea of a masterpiece (though you sure could fill an art gallery with girls who seemed to think otherwise), but he was beautiful to Peter.

But now, every time he looked at Davy, Davy was looking right back. It was hard to fully appreciate the slope of Davy's nose, the shade of his hair, the soft curve of his lips – when Davy was right there watching him do it and staring back just as hard.

Sure, people said the Mona Lisa's eyes followed you around the room…but did she scrutinize you with a quizzical half-frown on her face, front teeth pressing into her bottom lip? Peter didn't think so.

But that was just what Davy did now, every time he felt Peter's eyes on him. He stared right back, and wouldn't look away until Peter did. Micky tried to join in once or twice when a Look broke out in the kitchen or the living room, but it turned out that a staring competition with three people just didn't work.

The funny thing was, it was just like Davy had said – after that awkward first attempt, he really didn't seem to mind Peter looking at him. He'd even stopped fidgeting and his hands now stayed open and loose by his sides.

Sometimes, Peter even glanced up to find Davy's eyes on him first. It never failed to startle him, and even though he knew better (mostly because it tended to happen when they were alone in their bedroom), he still had the urge to turn around to see who Davy was really looking at.

He'd even asked, once, eyes locked on Davy's, but still unable to believe that he was the focus of Davy's attention, "Do – did you want something?"

And Davy'd shook his head and smiled a funny, crooked smile and said, "No. It's just – you're not exactly…hard to look at."

Which proved once and for all that Davy really _was_ looking at him.

It made him feel oddly…expectant. The way he did whenever they were getting ready to play a gig. Like he was preparing for something big that lay just around the corner.

It made sense to feel that way about a gig, because after they had finished setting up, they played in front of an audience (usually – except for that one dispiriting time in the Yellow Tulip), which was always exciting, no matter how many (or few) times it happened.

But it made no sense at all to feel that same anticipatory thrill after a look from Davy. He tried to reason with his body, to tell it that there was no point in getting all worked up, because a look was only a look, and just what was his body expecting, anyway?

His body was a little unclear on that point, though quite insistent that it did, in fact, expect _something._

* * *

"You know, when you invited me over to play cards," Neil said, squinting at the table. "I wasn't expecting _these _cards."

"Oh," Peter said.

"Just your typical case of crossed wires," Neil said, picking up one of Peter's old birthday cards, only to lay it down almost immediately. "Well…maybe not so typical. So – what'll we do instead?"

Peter thought about it. "Davy's just out on the beach – we could call him in, do some exercises."

"Do we have to?" Neil asked, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

"I can't remember the last time we did something to try to get over Davy."

Neil frowned. "Does everything we do have to be about Jones?"

"Well, given the nature of our organization…yes?" Peter hazarded.

Neil picked at his pants with his fingers. "Don't _you_ ever get tired of it?"

"Not really," Peter said, then he stopped. "Why? Do you?"

"I don't know. I just…there's not that much _to_ Jones, you know?"

"Size isn't everything," Peter said reprovingly, before suddenly realizing, "You sound like you're already over him."

Neil shrugged.

"This is great!" Peter said, but Neil didn't meet his eyes. "When did it happen?"

It took him so long to answer that Peter almost thought he wasn't going to say anything at all. "I don't know. A while ago."

Peter frowned. "But – why didn't you say anything?"

Neil stared down at his hands. "I figured…if you knew, you'd disband the club."

"Well…there's not much point in having a club to get over Davy, if you're already completely over him," Peter pointed out.

"I guess," Neil said.

He looked at Neil's clenched hands, his bowed head. "But…it's not like there has to be some kind of club for us to spend time together as friends."

Neil finally looked at him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he said. It almost didn't sound like a question.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, trying to infuse the word with as much certainty as Neil seemed to lack. "You know, this is really good news – you being over Davy. How did it happen?"

There was another of those too-long silences before Neil replied. "I don't know," he said. "It's just – like you said. Eventually you see people for who they really are. And you just figure out there's probably something better out there…some_one_…better." He stared ferociously at his knees.

Peter didn't know why he seemed so shy about admitting it, because it was such clear evidence of progress. Not just that Neil had gotten over Davy…but that he was admitting so openly that there _was_ something to get over. Not to mention this idea that there might be somebody else out there for him. Peter believed that utterly, of course, but for _Neil_ to believe it, to be able to voice it – that was the best sign of all.

When Neil finally glanced up, he smiled warmly, encouragingly, until Neil finally smiled back.

Peter thought this was called positive reinforcement. Neil seemed to go for it anyway.

* * *

One night, when they were smack dab in the middle of a Look, sitting opposite each other on their respective beds, Davy licked his lips, then asked, out of the blue, "Did you ever see the Wizard of Oz?"

Peter thought about it. "I once saw Santa Claus at the North Oaks mall in July," he offered.

"The film. Movie. You know – with the tornado? And the girl gets stuck in Oz, and she's looking for a way back home, and she has to find the Wizard, because everyone says he's the only one who can send her back to Kansas?"

Peter nodded.

Davy kicked a bare heel absently against the bedframe. "And Dorothy's pinned all her hopes on this fella, only it turns out he's not really a magician at all, and he can't help her."

"Well, yeah…but she gets back home in the end, right?"

"Yeah."

"So everything works out okay."

"But it doesn't work out the way it's _supposed_ to," Davy said. "I mean, the Wizard, he tries, but – he can't help. He wants to, and maybe he _thinks_ he can, but when it comes down to it – he can't do it."

"I don't remember the movie being so sad," Peter offered. Davy seemed to be taking this fictional disappointment uncharacteristically hard.

"It's just – there's this road, and you're following it," Davy said, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "But – what if it doesn't lead anywhere? What if you get to the end, and…you pull back the curtain, and there's nothing there?"

"It's probably going to be a shorter movie?" Peter guessed.

Davy didn't seem to hear this. "You're going along, right, and – you think something's going to work out one way…but what if it doesn't? What if – it's _not _that easy? What if, when it comes right down to it, I _can't?_"

Apart from a distinct feeling that they weren't in Kansas anymore, Peter couldn't pin down their current location. Geography had never been his strong point.

"Well…it's probably going to be okay," he said, finally.

Davy didn't seem convinced. "You really think so?"

"Yeah. I mean – Dorothy didn't even need that phony Wizard in the end. All she really needed was a groovy pair of shoes, and she already had those. And" – his voice grew stronger, "and _you_ don't even _need_ to find your way home, because…you're already _here_."

Davy looked at him for a very long moment, before saying, oddly soft, "Yeah. I am." He smiled a small, but genuine smile. "Thanks, Pete."

"Anytime," he assured him.

Later, lying in the dark, the last thing Peter said before drifting off to sleep was, "Next time, maybe we should watch a comedy."

* * *

Maybe Davy had some inkling that he was coming to the end of the yellow brick road, because It happened the very next day.

After breakfast, Mike and Micky went to scout out a potential gig, and decided to leave Davy behind because, "The manager's got a pretty bad case of Zambiano-liangiotica-loigisticolog-phobia. He sees Davy and he's gonna be climbing the walls."

"So what do we do if we get the gig?" Davy asked.

"You know that pair of stilts we found in the upstairs closet?" Micky asked leadingly. "If we put you on those and dress you in vertical stripes, it might just work." He sized Davy down and down. "_Might_," he repeated.

"Why don't we concentrate on getting the gig first," Mike cautioned, "Before we start worrying about the little details." He got to his feet. "You coming, Pete?"

Peter shook his head. "Neil's coming over."

"All right. Well – you two have fun," Mike said, with the slightest pause before the word 'fun', as if he wasn't sure it belonged in the sentence.

"We will," Peter assured him.

After Mike and Micky's exit, Peter's hunt for the household's broken etch-a-sketch (a key ingredient in his plans with Neil) brought him back into the bedroom. When he finally emerged from under Davy's bed, clutching the etch-a-sketch triumphantly, he found that Davy had followed him and was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and a preoccupied frown on his face.

"When's Neil going to be here?" he asked.

"I don't know," Peter said. "Soon, I guess."

Davy nodded, and didn't say anything else for a few moments, as Peter got to his feet and dusted himself off. But as Peter was about to pass him, he reached out and caught his arm, stopping him. "How did you know?" he said.

Peter looked at him.

"When you decided – about me. How did you _know?_"

Davy's fingers were still around his wrist, like a bracelet. He wasn't gripping hard or anything – Peter thought maybe Davy hadn't even realised he was still holding on…but Peter was very aware of the pressure of each finger. He couldn't not be.

"I didn't _decide _it," Peter said, because 'decision' was the last word you could ever use to describe his feelings for Davy. "It just happened. I just – _knew."_

"But that's the thing," Davy said. "I _don't_ know."

Peter blinked. Davy was still grasping his wrist, and he had a vague feeling that under other circumstances he would have been enjoying that. But these were _other_ other circumstances and instead, all he could focus on was the half-determined, half-apprehensive expression on Davy's face and the jittery pre-gig feeling in his own stomach.

"You don't know?" he repeated, and because he couldn't help himself, "What don't you know?"

Of course, it was silly, because if Davy knew what he didn't know, wouldn't that mean that he knew it, and therefore that he didn't not know it in the first place? He almost expected Davy to release his wrist and shake his head exaggeratedly, to say something like, "Isn't that the dumbest question you've ever heard?"

But instead, Davy held his gaze and said, "I want to – I want it to be true. I _do. _And I look at you, and I think – I think…maybe. But – I don't _know._"

His eyes weren't connected to his lungs – at least as far as Peter knew, but just looking at Davy was making it hard for him to breathe.

"Oh," he said.

Davy's face set into resolve. "Can I try something?" he asked.

Peter's lips were very dry. He licked them. "Try something?"

Davy swallowed. "It's just – an experiment. Is that okay? I can't – I can't promise anything."

Peter opened his mouth – but before he could say anything, Davy said, "It's okay if you don't want to. You can say no."

"Okay," Peter said.

"Okay?"

"Okay," he confirmed.

"Okay," Davy repeated. He seemed almost thrown by Peter's acquiescence – but then, Peter was feeling a little off-balance himself. "Just remember," he said, "Experimentation is how Marie Curie discovered radium, so…be careful."

This seemed to jolt Davy out of his daze, and he said, "I will," quite seriously, before taking a deep breath and pulling Peter over to his bed. He sat, tugging on Peter's wrist, which Peter took as his cue to sit down too.

"I suppose," Davy said. "We could. If we started with" –

He didn't finish, but his hand moved down from Peter's wrist, to hold his hand instead.

"All right?" he asked. He didn't look at Peter – he focused at the wall opposite instead.

Pressed palm-to-palm with Davy, Peter was half-certain this was a dream. He looked from his right hand (still holding the broken etch-a-sketch) and his left hand, linked to Davy's in a way that felt simultaneously impossible and completely natural at the same time. "All right," he agreed.

They sat there, holding hands for so long that Peter had begun to think that this was the entire experiment, when Davy, still staring straight ahead, made an impatient noise in his throat, and in a sudden flurry of movement, he released Peter's hand, then turned on the bed and threw a leg over Peter's, so that he was straddling him.

The etch-a-sketch fell to the floor.

"All right?" Davy asked again. His eyes met Peter's, and it made Peter's heart jump in his chest, like a frog. The pre-gig excitement spread from his stomach all through his body, like a shockwave.

There was no reason for it, Peter tried to tell his body. It wasn't like Davy was _that_ much closer than normal. It wasn't even as if Davy was sitting on his lap – he was very considerately holding himself away from Peter, and taking all his weight on his own legs. Really it was almost exactly like the time Davy had painted his face.

The pre-gig feeling swirled through his veins, in defiant disagreement.

Davy's gaze dropped from his eyes to his lips and he tipped his head to the side. Peter's heart stopped as he moved closer, but instead of kissing him, at the very last second, Davy turned his head, resting his chin on Peter's shoulder.

His chest was pressed against Davy's, and he could feel his breath coming faster than usual. Hesitantly, Peter brought up his own hands. He felt Davy take a breath in as Peter placed his hands on his back – but he breathed out again, carefully, deliberately, and relaxed into Peter's hold.

It was with a kind of unbelief that Peter let his hands slide up to Davy's shoulders, and then slowly back to his waist. He did it again, marveling that it was happening – that he was really sitting here, and touching Davy like this. He turned his face into Davy's neck. He could feel Davy swallow.

He expected Davy to move away at any moment, but he didn't. He stayed exactly where he was, and let Peter touch him.

It was the most unexpected, most breathtaking gift he'd ever received.

Davy's back was a smooth slope – it felt soothing under his fingers. His shirt had come a little bit untucked from his pants, and even though Peter knew it was extremely bad manners to unwrap a present that didn't really belong to you, he couldn't stop his fingers from exploring the narrow strip of exposed skin underneath his shirt.

Touching Davy was like picking up a brand new kind of instrument – one Peter wanted to play for the rest of his life. One he could be good at. His hands stole under Davy's now loosened shirt, appreciating the feel of Davy's bare skin, the sudden jut of his spine. Absently, he found the fingers of his left hand forming chords on Davy's back. A. A minor. C…

Davy's hot breath in his ear caused him to lose track, as Davy changed his position. He sat back a little, hands coming to rest on Peter's shoulders, studying him intently, looking uncertain. Peter stayed very still, hands grasping Davy's waist. He leaned in again – but even though Peter's heart gave another hard thump, Davy still didn't kiss him. Instead, he angled his head to the left, until they were cheek to cheek. He stayed like that for a moment, before starting to move, rubbing his cheek against Peter's jaw, touching noses, pressing his forehead to Peter's, until all Peter could see in front of him were Davy's eyes.

Given the effortless way Davy just _was _with girls, this was undeniably awkward and clumsy in comparison – but there was something vulnerable and tender about it too, and it made Peter's heart swell with love.

And, even though it was a raw and unpracticed move, nothing like his straightforward opposite-sex interactions…the core of it was the same. Because Davy was touching him, or trying to touch him, in the way he touched people he wanted.

All of a sudden, Eddie Carey's insinuating words – "_We're taking advice from the guy who shares a room and sleeps with Davy," – _floated into his head, heady, intoxicating like smoke, and for the very first time, Peter thought that – _he could. _He could _sleep with _Davy.

The back of his right hand pressed against Davy's stomach, and he felt the muscles there jump under his fingers. Davy's hands cupped his face. He was wearing a ring on his little finger – Peter could feel it against his jaw. Davy's fingers were warm against his face, and he knew, he just _knew _that this was it, when Davy leaned in for the third time – his lips parted, and he waited, breathless and overflowing with something that felt like adoration in that moment.

It happened slowly – Davy's mouth was tipping towards his, his eyes locked on Peter's…when he stopped. He kept looking at Peter, but gradually, the conviction drained from his expression. And then Davy moved back – an infinitesimal distance, but it seemed like an immense, chilly expanse to Peter.

"I think…this…" Davy gestured between them with a hand, and Peter didn't have to hear the rest to know that Davy was calling off the experiment. He nodded, supportively.

Well, he nodded.

"Sorry," Davy said. "I'm sorry – it's just, way too much" –

"It's okay," Peter said. "It was just an experiment." He tried to hold Davy's gaze, to communicate without words his absolute and utter devotion – but Davy wouldn't look at him.

"I should probably…" Davy said awkwardly, shifting his position and beginning to move away.

"Yes," Peter agreed – or meant to agree, but somehow it came out wrong, because instead of saying "Yes," he found himself saying nothing at all, as his left hand shot out to the back of Davy's head, holding him in place while Peter surged forward and kissed him.


	9. Chapter 9

As their noses bumped, and their lips mashed together, Peter wondered if it was possible to pretend that he was doing this in the spirit of scientific enquiry.

But almost immediately, scientific rigour forced him to admit that he wasn't kissing Davy for empirical purposes.

It wasn't a good kiss – panic had made him misjudge the distance and his lips were pressed too hard against Davy's, nose pushed into the side of his face, so it was hard to breathe.

This really wasn't part of the plan. Of course, it _couldn't_ have been part of the plan, because Peter had never _had_ a plan. Still, _if_ he'd had a plan, which he didn't, this wouldn't have been part of it…even though it never could have been anyway, since there hadn't ever been a plan in the first place.

Clearly, the only thing to do was to withdraw and apologise and hope Davy wouldn't be mad about it.

Except, he couldn't do it. He couldn't make himself pull back, because well, even if the situation was making him feel a little sick with how awful it was, and how wrong everything had gone – this was still probably the one and only shot he would ever have at kissing Davy and no matter how much of a mess he was making of it –

– the one thing he _couldn't_ do was _stop_.

So he held on, still kissing Davy too hard at that odd, awkward angle, until Davy pulled back.

And it was over.

Peter stared at the collar of Davy's shirt in a kind of mute misery, until it dawned on him that while Davy had moved back, he hadn't moved _away. _

Very hesitantly, he looked up.

Davy didn't look mad.

"Sorry," he said, anyway.

Davy's smile was small, but there. "S'alright," he said. "It was my fault too. I mean, you can't start an experiment and not expect" –

" – ten foot flames and screaming and frogs everywhere," Peter agreed. At Davy's look he explained, "They made me drop out of science class in high school. But this is – well, it's not so bad. In comparison. Probably." He tried to smile.

"I wish you wouldn't look like that," Davy said. He touched Peter's jaw, gently tipping it upwards until Peter had no choice but to meet his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," Peter said. Then, because lying wasn't his strong suit, "I don't know. I guess – I just…wish it had been better. The kiss."

"Not what you always imagined?" Davy asked. He suddenly sounded a little bit distant. Maybe because he wasn't looking at Peter anymore.

"I never really imagined what it would be like," Peter admitted. His breath rose up in a sigh, "But – if I had, I wouldn't have imagined that it would be like that."

Davy flicked a sidelong look at him before looking away again. "Sorry," he said.

Peter frowned. "Why are you sorry?"

Davy shrugged, the barest jerk of movement. "That I didn't live up to…whatever it was that you never imagined."

"But – that's my fault," Peter said. "I mean – I should never have tried to kiss you just now. It was my fault."

Davy blew out a long breath and turned his head back to Peter. "Do we really have to get into whose fault it was? Does it have to be someone's fault? Can't it just be – I dunno – something that happened?"

"…Okay," Peter agreed.

"Okay," Davy repeated. He shifted a little and Peter wondered when he was going to move off his lap. He tried to brace himself for this seeming inevitability, but instead, Davy studied him again and said, "You still have that look."

"What look?" Peter asked.

"Like you're disappointed," Davy said.

"It's nothing," Peter said quickly. Davy waited, and the silence drew the truth out of him the way salt drew out water. "It's just…that was the one and only time I'm ever going to get to kiss you…and I just…wish I had the chance to do it all over again." His eyes traveled over Davy's face, stopping at his mouth with a kind of pang. It felt like he'd lost something important.

Davy was silent for a few moments, before eventually saying, "Who says that was your only chance?"

Peter's eyes shot to his, startled, and he clarified, "I mean – look, I'm not saying that, you know, this is…" he made a series of gestures that seemed to describe the unexpected growth spurt of a fuzzy hamster, "but…look – could we just…put any expectations away for a minute?"

He looked at Peter.

"No expectations," Peter said.

Davy smiled that soft almost-smile. "Good," he said. "Because – we're just trying something here. It doesn't need to be a big deal. Nothing – nothing _heavy_."

And he leaned in and brushed his lips against Peter's, sweet and soft and short.

"How was that?" he asked, when he pulled back. "Better?"

Peter stared at him. "Good," he said, when he jerked back to awareness. He touched his lips with his fingers, trying to imprint the memory of Davy's kiss onto them.

"Good," Davy repeated. "Nothing heavy." Then he said, almost casually, "Your turn."

Peter looked at him, but Davy just looked back, unmoving. And carefully, Peter reached out again, sliding one hand into Davy's hair.

This time, he didn't rush. He took the time to angle his head just right. He drew Davy closer and then, he stopped and waited, letting the anticipation of what was going to happen next build like static electricity – until his fingertips tingled with the charge. Even Davy seemed to feel it – his breath came faster, lips parting slightly.

And _then _Peter kissed him.

Slowly.

Because…if Davy was like an instrument, a new and unfamiliar one, then it only made sense to move at a measured pace. You couldn't just charge in and expect to be able to play a classical concerto without any practice. You had to feel your way around an instrument, take the time to figure it out, learn how to play it properly.

So he explored Davy with care – like he wanted to know every quirk and twist of him, using his hands and lips to create a rhythm, looking for the exact right tempo.

Which, when he hit on it, turned out to be slow, unhurried, deliberate – a languorous melody of mouths and tongues, that made him think of lazy afternoons spent strumming his guitar on his bed.

Underneath it all, keeping the beat, was a kind of barely restrained excitement, because here and now, he and Davy were completely and utterly connected. They weren't just playing random notes – they were making _music_.

Together.

Peter could feel it in the way Davy's hands brushed against his neck, warm and searching, and the way his fingers trailed down from Peter's collarbone to the first button on his shirt. He could feel it in the small, absorbed movements of Davy's lips against his, in the way that the decorous space that had existed between their bodies had narrowed down to…well, nothing, given how they were pressed up against each other now.

It was very quiet – a heavy, intent kind of silence, where the smallest noise, like their breathing, like the rasp of Davy's pants against the fabric of the bedclothes as he adjusted his position, like the hardly there sounds of lips touching lips, seemed oddly amplified…

And then Davy's fingers fumblingly unbuttoned the second button of his shirt.

Which called out, "Pete? Hey Pete? Hello?" in response.

It jerked them both out of the moment. Davy's eyes met his for a startled second, before Peter broke eye contact to stare down at his shirt. His buttons had never tried to engage him in conversation before.

It took him a moment to realize that the voice had come from _outside_ the room, and then another moment to realize that he was not the possessor of ventriloquist buttons.

"It's Neil," he told Davy, who let his head drop down to the side. Even though he couldn't see it, he could feel Davy's nod against the left side of his face.

"You should…" he said, not quite panting.

His voice tickled Peter's ear. "I should…" he agreed mindlessly.

A second later, and Davy slid away from him, and Peter tried to adjust to this sudden state of Not-Touching they found themselves in. He felt oddly bereft – even though he'd been living most of his life in said state, and had only briefly crossed the border into Touching Territory.

He still missed it. Returning to the normality of Not-Touching felt like the end of a summer vacation.

"Pete – are you there?" Neil's voice called again.

"Yeah. Um. Just a minute," he called back, still looking at Davy as he got to his feet. He just stood for a moment, his hands by his sides. They felt empty.

"Neil is here," he said, unnecessarily. "I should go talk to him."

"Right. He'll be waiting." Davy nodded again. Peter remembered when Davy had done the exact same thing against his face. He wondered if it counted as a memory when it had happened less than five minutes ago.

He didn't move. "This…" he asked, because he had to, and because well, _this…_

"Yeah…" Davy said. He didn't seem unhappy, more, like Peter, shaken by the experience.

"I can't really believe it," Peter said.

"What's so hard to believe?"

"I don't know. That it happened, I guess. Because – it's _you, _and it's _me, _and it…_this…_" he abruptly ran out of words, and resorted to turning his hand in big circles to describe the enormity of it.

"It just – happened," Davy finally said, fingers fidgeting with his cuffs. "_This_…well. It's just something that happened."

"It is?"

"Yeah." Davy managed a one-shouldered shrug, but his eyes softened as they met Peter's. "And – we'll sort it out. Later."

"We will?"

"Course we will," Davy said, sounding more confident. "Because it's…not a big deal, really. It doesn't have to be a big deal. It was just – a kiss."

It had felt like a pretty big deal to Peter, but when Davy smiled at him, a small but indisputably genuine smile, he had to smile back.

"We'll figure it out," Davy said again, a promise, before reaching out and turning Peter in the direction of the door with a gentle push.

"Are you okay?" Neil asked immediately as Peter exited the bedroom. "I was beginning to think something was wrong."

Absently, Peter found himself pressing his lips together. "Nothing's wrong," he said, almost before Neil had finished the sentence.

"Oh," Neil said. He blinked. "Good." He blinked again. "Um. Your shirt. It's not buttoned."

Hastily, Peter rebuttoned the two buttons on his shirt. That Davy had undone. It was like a math problem. He still had difficulty comprehending it.

"Oh. Thanks," he said.

"Anytime," Neil said, staring hard in the opposite direction. He risked a look back as the seconds ticked by. "So are we going to sit down, or just stand here all day?"

"Hmm?" Peter jumped back to awareness. "Oh yes. We should sit down."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Neil asked, as he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

Peter had just begun to assure him that he was fine, when the bedroom door opened again and Davy appeared.

Peter couldn't help but stare because just a few minutes ago, _he _had been in that room. With Davy. And they had been –

"You forgot this," Davy said, holding out the broken etch-a-sketch. He smiled a little. "I thought you might need it."

- kissing. Touching. Making out.

Their fingers brushed as Peter took the red plastic frame from him.

"Thanks," Peter said.

Davy tilted his head in acknowledgment. "I'm going to go," he said. Peter watched his lips form words. Davy turned a little to include Neil. "Y'know, it's nice outside, if you two wanted to" –

"We're fine here," Neil interrupted, before he had a chance to finish.

"Okay," Davy said. "Well…" his eyes met Peter's again, and he smiled again – a smile that seemed to Peter to be especially for him. "…I'll see you later, yeah?"

Peter nodded, then ducked his head and smiled down at the table.

"Did something," Neil began, only to stop as the Pad door closed and Peter looked up. "Something happened between you and Jones," he realised. Peter blinked at Neil's strange expression. "Did you two…"

He wasn't especially good with nuance, but he didn't have to be, not when Neil was staring at his shirt, at the buttons he'd just rebuttoned. Eddie's voice echoed in his head again (_"the guy who – sleeps with Davy") _and a wave of heat suffused his body at the thought that _other people could think that. _That _other people_ could look at him, and look at Davy, and think that.

"No," he said, because it was true, and because the odd, twisted look on Neil's face made his stomach twist in sympathy. "We didn't…"

Neil was quiet, but insistent. "But something happened."

"It was just a kiss," Peter said, repeating Davy's words.

Neil's response seemed a long time in coming. "Oh," he said. "That's great. I'm glad for you."

The words were flat, monotone.

"You don't sound very glad," Peter observed.

"Yeah, well – I am." Neil shrugged and stared down at the table. "So. You and Jones. That's…huge."

Again, Davy's words seemed to be the only possible response. "It just happened. It's not a big deal."

The sudden focus of Neil's unblinking eyes made him uncomfortable. "You're in love with Jones, and I guess…he must feel the same now. It's a big deal."

In an already confusing situation, where Neil's words seemed to agree with Peter's own feeling about what had happened, he focused on the one thing he knew to be true. "You're not glad," he said again.

"Why wouldn't I be glad?"

"I don't know," Peter said, because that was his point. "Why don't you tell me?"

Neil looked away. "It doesn't matter."

"You're my friend. It matters to me."

"You're not going to like it."

Peter considered this. "Even if I don't – it's okay. We'll still be friends."

Neil faced him again. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Here it is. You're in love with this guy, who doesn't even bother to notice what's right in front of his eyes. So then, when he can't ignore it any more, he – what, decides you're an easy lay, and you – you're just going to go along with that?"

His denial was immediate. "That's not how it was," Peter said. "Davy wouldn't think like that."

"Okay. If you say so," Neil said.

"You don't believe me," Peter said. He didn't know how to prove to Neil that he was wrong. Neil hadn't been there for the awkward, thrilling encounter in the bedroom. If he had been, he would know that 'easy' was be the last word anyone could use to describe what had happened.

Neil shrugged. "Hey, you know Jones better than I do. If you say he wouldn't do that to you, then…" he stopped, only to burst out with, "It's just – you deserve better, Pete. And, I'm sorry – but I just get the feeling that Jones is – gonna hurt you."

Peter opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Neil quickly said, "I'm not saying he'd do it on purpose. It's just – who he is. You know, when they broke up, my sister was really cut up about it." He half-smiled at Peter wryly. "For real."

"But – she broke up with Davy."

"She wanted to focus on her classes. College. Our parents are kind of…" Neil shook his head. "Anyway – yeah, she broke up with him, but…she still missed him. Even cried a couple of times." He tilted his head, studying Peter. "How did Jones take it?"

It took Peter a moment to answer, because, after one slightly melancholy evening, Davy had taken the break-up quite philosophically. The way he always did.

"He liked Lucy," he said.

"Yeah," Neil agreed. "But he wasn't exactly crying into his pillow afterwards. And that was when someone he liked did the breaking up."

Peter didn't say anything, but he didn't have to, because Neil kept going, relentless, this set, determined expression on his face. "Usually it's the other way around, right? And how long does he usually go for? A week? Two?"

"But – it's not like Davy's doing that just for fun. When he dates a girl, he really likes her, it's just sometimes" –

"I don't care about Jones!" Neil almost yelled. In a quieter voice, he said, "I don't need to know _why_ he does what he does. I'm just - I'm worried about _you_. I mean – are you going to be okay when Jones pulls the same move on you in a week?"

Peter could feel himself take a deep breath, but it didn't seem to reach his lungs. A couple of minutes ago, he and Davy had been in their bedroom, kissing for the very first time. And now, he was sitting here with Neil, looking at the end of something that had only just begun. He wanted to rewind time.

"Can you still be his friend after he drops you?"

He took another of those unfulfilling deep breaths, and grabbed on to an unshakeable truth, a reassuring tree-trunk in a sudden hurricane of confusion. "I'm always going to be Davy's friend."

There was a silence.

"Okay," Neil said. He nodded. "Okay."

Slowly, Peter's toes started to relax. He hadn't realised that he'd been cramping them into tension inside his moccasins.

"But" – Neil said, as if he couldn't help himself, and Peter's toes curled again at the regretful look on his face, "Do you really think Jones can do the same?"

He didn't want to ask. There was already a stone in his stomach before he opened his mouth. He asked anyway. "What do you mean?"

He got the sense that Neil was being very careful with his words, picking them up like shells on the beach. It didn't matter, because when they came, they still hurt. "I saw how he was when he found out how you felt. He could hardly even look at you. How do you think he's going to act when he's worn out his curiosity, and wants to go back to being normal?"

Peter shook his head, not so much in denial, but in the hopes of clearing it. What Neil was saying seemed to crash into the memory of kissing Davy, like a cold wave slapping into a warm one. It felt like everything was overflowing into a lukewarm mess.

Peter remembered when Davy had found out that he loved him, reliving that lost, adrift sensation. He didn't want to feel that again.

"I'm sorry," Neil said abruptly. Peter looked up. "I'm ruining everything for you. I'm sorry. I should – I should go."

"I just – I don't…" he stared down at the table. He thought about kissing Davy, about what had happened between them on Davy's bed, and his heart gave an excited jerk that told him the answer to a question he didn't want to ask.

Because – no matter what Davy said – it _was _a big deal. Peter was in love with him. It couldn't _not _be a big deal. For him at least. But…it wasn't a big deal for Davy. And that meant that even if he _did_ want to do something with Peter – kiss, date (_sleep with_, Eddie Carey's voice whispered in his ear)…it wasn't going to be permanent.

And that...that was okay. He could live with that. A lot of things in his life turned out to be transient – jobs, gigs, even people like Harvey and Pavel, and Pavel's grandmother, and maybe someday even Neil…they all tended to fade away eventually.

But in the midst of all these temporary, fleeting things – there was a _foundation. _Some things endured. Him and Micky and Mike and Davy – they were friends. And that was permanent.

Peter _needed_ it to be permanent.

And that was why, if something more happened between him and Davy, and there was a possibility that Davy might feel awkward, might stop looking at him, or smiling at him, or – or _talking _to him…then Peter couldn't do it.

He could live with this - whatever it was - not being a big deal for Davy. He just - wasn't sure that Davy could. Not without feeling guilty, or awkward, and changing the core of their friendship. And Peter couldn't live with _that_.

It was an easy conclusion to reach, because it wasn't really even a choice. Peter literally _couldn't _do something that might result in him not having Davy as a friend anymore. The kiss was a big deal, to him anyway…but their friendship was always going to be the bigger deal.

It didn't mean that this wasn't impossibly difficult at the same time. At the back of his throat there was this ball of something too strong to be called disappointment – it was more like grief – and he had to keep choking it down.

When he looked up, Neil's eyes were kind, and he had to swallow again. He tried to smile.

"Would you try something for me?" Neil asked him, out of the blue. He reached out and laid his hand over both of Peter's. "Close your eyes," he instructed.

Peter did.

"Can you see Jones?"

He nodded.

"Make him real. Real as you can. Hang on to him."

That was pretty real, and Peter's breath stopped for a second as he looked into Davy's eyes, inches away, felt the ghostly press of Davy's knees on either side of his legs.

"Now breathe in. And out. And let him go."

Peter felt the light pressure of Davy's lips against his, the soft stroke of his tongue, the heat of his hands.

He breathed in. And then out.


	10. Chapter 10

Mike and Micky came back jubilant from their meeting with the club manager.

"We got the gig," Mike announced, as soon as they came through the Pad door.

"Not only that, but the guy wants Mike to meet his daughter," Micky added. "He's got the feeling they could have a freakishly tall future together."

"Where's Davy?" Mike asked. "We oughta tell him – and start planning how we're gonna pull this thing off. Turns out the manager doesn't just have a grudge against short people - he's got a minimum…well, I guess more of a _maximum_… height requirement for musicians. He says patrons can't hear the music if the guy playing is less than 5'9."

"Yeah – if Davy shows up looking like Davy, we're not going to make it through the door. You gotta be at least _this_ tall," Micky demonstrated by holding his hand up to Peter's head, "to play at _The Sasquatch_."

"He went out," Peter said. "He'll be back soon."

"Oh, okay. In that case, Micky – you see if you can dig out those stilts. I'm going to look for a stovepipe hat, and Peter…Pete?"

Peter looked up.

"You okay, Pete? You look a little, I don't know…blue."

Peter didn't feel a little blue. He felt like a distinctly more saturated shade –indigo, maybe – but he managed a smile and said, "I'm fine. I'm glad about the gig."

* * *

When Davy came back, they ate, and Mike and Micky kept the conversation going by planning out how Davy was going to infiltrate _The Sasquatch_ without getting stomped like a bug – kind of like a modern, groovier version of _Jack and the Beanstalk_. Still, as Peter stared down and stirred his meal components into an indistinguishable soup, it seemed to him that dinner was very quiet.

Maybe it was the fact that, after a token protest about having to sing while on stilts, Davy didn't say a whole lot. Maybe it was because, even though Peter kept his eyes resolutely fixed on his unappetizing plate, he could still feel Davy looking at him.

Afterwards, they spent some time practicing their set with Davy on stilts – a much more precarious proposition than normal, that saw several songs end prematurely with the sound of a body falling onto a drum kit.

When Mike made the judicious decision to call it a night, based on the increased volume and frequency of swearing when Davy pitched into the drums yet again, everyone picked themselves up and looked to be drifting bedwards.

Bedwards meant him and Davy. In their room. Alone.

"Wait!" he said.

Everyone paused.

"Everything all right, Pete?" Mike asked, frowning.

"Doesn't anyone feel like playing checkers?" he asked. "Or – or hopscotch?"

Mike looked at him. "You do seem kind of keyed up. I guess one or two games couldn't hurt. Checkers," he decided.

Peter felt dizzy with relief.

"Winner plays Mr Schneider?" Micky suggested, as he began the search for the checker-board. "You know how he gets when we leave him out."

"I'm going to bed," Davy said suddenly. Instinctively, Peter looked over at him, and their eyes caught for a breathless second. "I'm kind of tired," he said with a smile and a shrug in Micky and Mike's direction.

"Well, all right," Mike said. "G'night."

"G'night," Davy said. Peter stared very hard at Mr Schneider's hands, and not just to make sure he didn't have the opportunity to cheat, but he still caught the very edge of Davy's smile before he turned away.

A couple of games later, and even Mike was fading, chin propped on his hand. "Am I black or red?" he asked.

"I think we decided it was undemocratic to separate them," Peter told him. "We said setting reds against blacks had the potential to unwittingly reinforce a culture based on discrimination and segregation."

"That makes sense," Mike said, and paused. "And _that's_ a sign that I need to go to bed straightaway. C'mon, Micky."

"Mmhmszwh?" Micky didn't lift his forehead up from its resting place on his forearm.

"Come on - time for bed. You oughta hit the hay too, Pete - it's late, and we gotta lot of practicing to do over the next couple of days if we're going to make a splash at _The Sasquatch._"

Peter looked at his watch, which wasn't much help as it had stopped several days ago. "Okay," he said anyway, because it _was_ late, and there was a good chance Davy was already asleep by now.

Mike helped Micky to his feet and pushed him in the direction of the stairs. Before following him, he hesitated, and said, "You sure you're okay, Pete? No offence, but you just seem a little...off tonight."

"S'Pete. S'always off. Faulty wiring," Micky said sagely, before missing a step and twisting to sit down heavily on the stairs.

Mike's eyes were kind. Tired, but kind. Peter took a breath. "Mike - did you ever want something a whole lot...something you knew you could never have? And then...one day, out of the blue, someone told you that you _could_ have that thing? But...even though you really _really _wanted it...you knew it would be a bad idea to - take it?" He stopped. "Do you know what I mean?"

There was a brief, puzzled silence.

Mike stared at him. "Did that green van park by the beach again? Has that guy been hasslin' you? Because if he has, first thing tomorrow, we are gonna head down to the police station and make a report to the cops."

"No, I" - Peter began, but Mike took two steps closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm proud of you. You did the right thing, Pete. And you just keep rememberin' - no matter what he says, there ain't no ice-cream in the back of that van."

"I wasn't talking about the man in the green van," Peter said.

Mike blinked. "Oh." He considered it. "Well - it's still good advice. Keep it in mind."

"I will," Peter assured him. And as Mike hauled Micky up the stairs, Peter decided that even though they might have been speaking at cross-purposes for the most part, maybe they'd managed to talk their way over to an intersection. After all, Mike's advice was _good_ advice and probably applied to a whole lot of other situations. If you squinted.

It was this that bolstered his confidence and allowed him to finally square his shoulders and open the door to his and Davy's bedroom. But when he stepped inside, the figure curled up in Davy's bed didn't even move. Peter's shoulders immediately slumped in relief.

He took one deep breath, and then two, feeling the tension in his stomach untwist, and then he carefully and quietly flicked the light switch.

Immediately, Davy sat up in his bed. "Peter," he said, then stifled a yawn.

Peter jumped. "Davy. I thought you'd be asleep by now."

"Yeah. Well, I just thought - after today, what happened...we should probably talk a bit first." He ran a hand through his hair, already rumpled, which rumpled it further. Peter felt a pang low down in his stomach, and he had to remind himself, very sternly, that there was no ice-cream in the van.

"Do you really think we should? I mean, people always say you shouldn't really talk for at least an hour before sleeping." He gripped the doorknob behind his back with both hands.

"I think that's 'don't eat for an hour before swimming,'" Davy informed him.

"Oh. Well. Same principle, I guess. And - better safe than sorry."

"I suppose," Davy said with a frown. "Just - well, I did say we'd sort it out later. And, well - it _is_ later."

"Or earlier. But I guess that's all a matter of perspective - you can look at the glass as being half-early, or half-late. Either way, you probably got the wrong order, because you can't drink time."

"It's late," Davy decided. "When that stuff starts making sense to me, it's late."

"...Okay," Peter said.

"Okay," Davy said. He cleared his throat and, desperately, Peter interrupted, "But is there really anything to sort out? I mean - like you said, it wasn't a big deal."

"Well...yeah, I know I said that, but - it _did_ happen," Davy said, slowly. He had his head tilted to the side, and Peter wanted to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows with his fingers, or maybe his lips. It was something he'd wanted to do before, but now, for the first time, there was a small possibility that Davy might actually let him. It made it very hard to stay where he was. Resolutely, he looked at the floor.

He breathed in. He breathed out.

It felt hollow instead of cleansing, the same way it had earlier, with Neil - because just like then, the memory of kissing Davy caught in his chest as he breathed in, dug into his heart with kitten claws...and he let it. He breathed out, and kept the memory clutched tightly in his fist, like a kid holding on to a balloon.

He didn't let go.

He told himself it didn't matter in the end - because him keeping the memory wasn't going to change anything. Davy had kissed a lot of girls and then left them behind with only a regretful glance...but Peter wasn't going to let that happen here.

"A lot of things happen to us," he said. "If we talked about all of the things that happened to us, we'd never stop talking and then things would never happen to us."

Davy looked at him, and surmised, "You...don't want to talk about it?"

Peter didn't say anything. It was definitely long past bedtime, because his limited supply of excuses were now exhausted.

"It's late," he said simply.

"You're right," Davy said finally. "We should probably - get some sleep."

Relieved, Peter crossed over to his bed - but Davy didn't close his eyes or move to lie down. He stayed sitting up, that frown still on his face. Peter changed into his pajamas, awkwardly aware of Davy even though he'd turned his back to him to undress.

"Pete?" Davy asked, voice low. Peter stopped and his shoulders stiffened. "It - the kiss, I mean - was it not...I mean, was _I_ not" -

Peter turned around and did the only thing he could do - he played dumb. ("Don't sell yourself short," Micky had once told him. "This isn't your average, common-garden type of playing dumb. You could play dumb _professionally._")

"Hmm?" he asked, benignly blank expression on his face.

Davy just looked at him for a moment. "Nothing," he said. He shook his head. "It's...nothing. Goodnight."

Then he lay down and turned over on his side, so his back was facing Peter, who took the chance to look without being observed. It was a cheat, he knew, but between the bedclothes and the pajamas, he couldn't see very much, just Davy's hair, really. He guessed the saying was right. Cheaters never prosper.

"Goodnight," he said, in a quiet voice.

* * *

The next morning, Davy seemed to be in a better mood - which was...well, only to be expected. You couldn't expect him to mourn what amounted to a half-formed possibility for very long, after all, Peter told himself, as he caught Davy's eye over the kitchen table and Davy smiled at him.

It felt good to have things back to normal. Well, mostly good, with just this tiny thornprick of loss. Which was silly, because he hadn't really lost anything to begin with. Yesterday's memory unhelpfully intruded, pointedly reminding him of the way Davy's mouth had fitted against his. He guessed that was what was called a rebuttal.

He was a little busy wrestling the remembered sensation of Davy's skin under his hands into submission as they finished breakfast and so he missed a portion of the conversation.

" - Pete?" Davy asked, and he finally jerked back to the present.

He looked at Davy inquiringly.

"I was saying - I thought...it might be nice to go for a walk. If you want." Davy was smiling at him, like what he was saying was a regular, everyday suggestion - but there was something oddly careful in the way he spoke.

"Sounds good," Micky said. "Hey - we can try out the stilts on the boardwalk!"

Davy hesitated but then said, in that same careful tone, "Actually, I was asking Peter. Just - Peter."

Peter blinked. Happiness flared in his chest, like Davy's words had flicked a lightswitch inside him - and the feeling only got bigger and brighter as he looked at Davy, standing expectantly by the table.

"You mean - like a date?" he said. There was a sudden scraping noise as Mike and Micky pulled their chairs in close on either side of him, the better to stare at Davy, who didn't appear to notice, still smiling at Peter.

"It could be," he said. "If you want." His hands were open by his sides.

The happiness abruptly switched off as Peter remembered that this wasn't a good idea. That it was only going to lead to awkwardness and pain down the road. Not 'down the road' like at the end of the boardwalk, but in a more metaphorical sense.

It was very hard to keep that shadowy end of the road in mind while looking into Davy's eyes. "I...um...I think - that...Neil might be coming over, so..."

"That's all right," Davy said. "We can always go later instead."

Peter swallowed and thought very hard about how awful it would be when the walking and dating came to an end, and was replaced with Davy not-looking at him, and not-smiling at him, and not-dating him - but in a different, more painful way than he'd been not-dating Peter all along.

He straightened in his seat. "We thank you for expressing your interest in our goods and services, but unfortunately we regret to inform you that there are no vacancies available at this present time."

Davy blinked. "You're saying you...don't want to go for a walk right now?"

"I should tell you that we don't anticipate any future vacancies, either," Peter finished miserably.

"You're saying you don't - want to go for a walk with me...ever?" he realized.

"I think it would be a bad idea," Peter said. He didn't recognize his own voice. "I mean...with the club and everything...it's probably a conflict of interest..."

The worst part was that it took a few moments for that soft, hopeful smile to fade from Davy's face.

"Oh," he said.

It seemed to echo in the silence, sending ripples of discomfort through the Pad - ripples that got bigger and bigger and harder to ignore until finally -

"I'll walk with you!" Micky yelped, pushing his chair back and scrambling to his feet. "Let's go! If you want to walk, then - hey, let's get going!"

Mike too got to his feet. "Micky's right!" he said. "You're right! We need some - some fresh air and exercise...right away!"

There followed a few brief but action-packed moments of that ended with Micky and Mike hustling a somewhat bewildered looking Davy out of the Pad door.

He wandered from the kitchen area into the living room, over to the band stand, then around the staircase, and back to the kitchen. It felt like he was missing something - like part of him had followed Davy out the door, leaving the rest of him here, like a heavy, unused paperweight.

Mike would fix it, he told himself. Mike would talk to Davy, and even if he didn't understand the situation fully, Peter had faith that he would do a better job of explaining it than Peter would.

Still, the lost, not-quite-there feeling persisted. He tried to push it down when Neil showed up, but every so often it made itself felt in swampy silences and conversational dead-ends.

"Are you okay?" Neil said finally, reluctantly. His eyes met Peter's, only to dart away almost immediately. "After yesterday?"

"I'm sure I...will be," Peter said. He was facing Neil on the couch, legs folded up like pretzels underneath him.

There was a pause.

"I didn't mean to make you miserable, you know," Neil told him. "When I said all that stuff yesterday, about you and Jones...I didn't do it to hurt you."

"It's okay," Peter said. "I know. You told me what you really thought. That's what friends do for each other."

Neil looked at him again. "It's just - you're...the best person I know. Jones isn't good enough for you. _No-one's_ good enough for you."

"Oh." Peter smiled. "That's really flattering." The smile faded from his face. "...and lonely."

"Yeah, well..." Neil gazed down at his fingers in his lap. After a moment's pause, he said, "You know...I don't know if this is going to mean anything to you, but...my girlfriend and I broke up yesterday."

He made a face. "I broke up with her. I figured - if you were sacrificing something big...maybe I could do the same. Keep you company, y'know? And - it was the right thing to do."

Peter looked at him. "Are you okay?"

"Kind of scared, actually," he admitted, with a sheepish kind of honesty that was all the more endearing coming from someone who looked like they could knock down walls without even trying. "But - it was the right thing to do. Beryl, Ber, she's a great girl, but I couldn't keep letting her think I felt something for her that - I'm never going to feel." He stared down at his knees. "No matter how much I wish I could."

Peter reached out and placed his hand over Neil's. "It's going to be all right," he said. "And I think you did the right thing."

"Yeah," Neil said. He turned his hand so that he and Peter were palm to palm, and stared down at the result. "I've been feeling like - like I was just stringing her along, like Jones."

Peter frowned. "Davy doesn't do that to people."

"Yeah. You said that," Neil said. The words were free of censure, but flat, another conversational dead end.

"You know, it might turn out to be a good thing," Peter said. "Breaking up."

Neil nodded. "Maybe. Beryl should be with a guy who really likes her. She deserves that."

"And you," Peter said. "Don't forget yourself. You deserve good things too."

Neil just looked at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "I never met anyone like you before," he said. "The way you see things...I don't know. You know - if I'd never met you, I never would've even thought about breaking up with Beryl."

Peter opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Neil said, "I don't mean it in a bad way. It's just - that stuff you told me...about it being okay to - miss Jones, to miss a guy. About - being okay the way I am, the way _we_ are... That there's somebody out there for me..."

"You believe all that now?" Peter asked.

Neil shook his head, once. "No," he said, and Peter looked at him, confused.

He reached out, and took both of Peter's hands in his as he said, "But you - you make me _want _to believe that stuff."

It was strange, because as he looked at Peter, the look on his face faded from one thing into something else entirely, and Peter wasn't sure what either of them meant.

And then, Neil was moving closer, and Peter suddenly remembered how he used to play in his grandmother's rocking chair, and how once, he had pushed too hard, and ended up crashing backwards onto the floor.

There had been a moment, just at the point where the chair began to tip backwards, and Peter realized that he was going to fall, when he'd stared up at the ceiling, and felt...curiously suspended. A victim of forces (speed, gravity, oscillation) currently completely outside of his control.

And as Neil leaned in, and in, and touched his mouth to Peter's, he had a flash of that exact feeling, peculiar and precise. Of course, barring the couch suddenly growing rockers, and tipping them both backwards, it wasn't _exactly_ the same, but sheer surprise fixed him in place, and the shock of the whole world seeming to turn upside down was eerily familiar.

For someone so immense and forcefully physically _present, _the kiss was strangely gentle. The feel of Neil's lips on his was...well - odd...but warm and careful, and they demanded nothing in return.

Peter just sat there and tried to absorb this sudden weirdness that Neil seemed bent on passing on via mouth-to-mouth contact, and wondered when the rocking chair was going to fall.

His unasked question received a non-verbal answer couple of moments later when the Pad door swung open.

His heart gave a sudden stutter in his chest, and he found himself on his feet, facing Mike, and beside him, Davy. Mike looked surprised, eyebrows shooting towards his hat, and Davy looked, well, stunned was probably the easiest way to describe it - but to Peter, the look on Davy's face felt exactly like that spine-jarring moment he'd finally hit the floor in his grandmother's rocking chair.

Behind them, out of view, Micky's voice filtered into the Pad, "- telling you, Mike, there is no way we should have gotten all the way there, _and_ all the way back in that kind of time. Call me crazy, but this feels exactly like some kind of" -

He entered the Pad, and immediately stopped, eyes darting from Peter to Neil, still frozen on the couch, and then to Mike and Davy.

" - cheap narrative shortcut," he finished.


	11. Chapter 11

The silence pulled tight, stretched like a rubber band, until finally Mike snapped it.

"You know what I think just might help this situation?" he said brightly.

"What?" Micky asked, eyes still darting from Peter, to Neil, to Davy.

"Some more fresh air!" He caught hold of Davy, jabbed at Micky with his elbow, and backed all three out the door.

Peter sank back down onto the couch, wobbly-kneed. Several seconds passed before he remembered Neil - who, when he looked over, seemed equally shell-shocked by the events of the past five minutes.

It took Peter a few attempts to locate his voice, and really it wasn't worth the effort, because once he had, all he could think of to say was, "...um..."

Neil flinched.

"Are you o" -

With a sudden ungainly lurch, he was off the couch. Peter blinked up at him. "Sorry," Neil said. "Sorry - I" - he raised and then dropped his hands. "You should go," he said.

Peter frowned. "You're kicking me out? But...I live here."

"I meant - after Jones." He stared down at the floor. "You should - look, tell him it was my fault. I don't know, I'm an idiot. Sorry."

"It's okay," Peter said, because Neil was standing in front of him like an enormous, red-faced mountain. "But why" -

He stopped at the look on Neil's face, but Neil answered him with a fierce kind of shrug. "I don't - you were just...there, and I wanted..." This time the shrug was more defeated, "I wanted to. It was stupid."

"It's not stupid," Peter said. "I mean, it's natural to want to" -

"Natural," Neil repeated with a funny kind of laugh. "Yeah, that's - that's the word all right." He took a breath. "Go. Run after Jones - tell him it was all some dumb mistake. Make up with him."

Peter wanted to do exactly that, to track Davy down and wipe that awful look off his face. But he couldn't. Because at least Davy had Mike and Micky to take care of him, while Neil...Neil didn't have anyone. Except Peter.

"You're not going," Neil noted, apparently informed by his close scrutiny of Peter's feet.

"I want to make sure you're okay, first."

"I'm okay," Neil said. It might have sounded more convincing if he'd raised his head to say it.

"That's good," Peter said. "I'm glad. I just...I don't know if I believe you," he finished, almost apologetically.

Neil did look at him then, eyes locked on his for a long moment, before shaking his head and saying, "I gotta go. I'll see you around, Pete."

"Tomorrow," Peter said, voice rising as Neil turned away. "You mean you'll see me tomorrow, right?" He struggled to his feet, but his only answer was the quiet click of the Pad door closing.

* * *

The scene that followed Mike, Micky and Davy's return was not a pleasant one. Peter sat on the couch and snuck glances at Davy, leaning by the spiral staircase, but he didn't seem to see him. Instead, Davy stared at the floor, a frown on his face, while Mike and Micky paced in front of Peter.

"I'm just sayin', we didn't expect to come in and find you makin' out with some boy on the couch," Mike said. "I thought we raised you better than that."

"Next thing you know, he'll be sneaking out in the middle of the night, listening to rock and roll, and hanging out with long-haired weirdoes!" Micky said.

"But I don't need to leave the house to do that," Peter pointed out.

"Oh yeah," Micky said. "In that case - we've given you everything a growing boy could ask for. How could you be so ungrateful?"

"Listen, Pete, buddy - it's just...a little surprising to find you, well, sneaking around. You don't have to do that. You know you can tell us anything, right?"

"Yeah. It's like they say - a boy's best friend is his drummer," Micky said, with a nod.

"But - there's nothing to tell," Peter said. He looked over at Davy again, but Davy hadn't moved an inch.

"It didn't exactly look like nothing," Mike said carefully, while Micky scoffed, "Believe me - a boy like that's interested in only one thing." He paused then gestured at himself, "Take it from a boy like that."

"It was a mistake."

"You mean like he was asking for directions, and he made a wrong turn at your lips?"

"It was all a misunderstanding," Peter said, as firmly as he could. He raised his voice, hopefully directing his words towards Davy. "It's - I mean, he did kiss me, but it was a mistake, and it's not...we're not dating or anything."

Davy turned towards him, but the relief of him finally meeting Peter's eyes was quickly muted by what he said.

Which was, "Well, maybe you should."

Silence fell like an anvil.

"_What_?" Mike said eventually. It was a relief - because that was exactly what Peter wanted to say...except he seemed to have misplaced all his words. It felt like the couch was riding a stormy sea, and he fought the urge to grab onto an armrest for balance.

"I see where we went wrong now," Micky told him. "It's Davy. He's a bad influence on Peter. Next thing you know he's going to teach him how to swear."

"Come on man, this ain't funny," Mike said, but he was addressing Davy. "You know Peter can't date Neil."

"Why not?" Davy asked.

"Why not?" Mike repeated. "Why _not? _That's the most ridiculo - I mean, how anyone can ask...why _not_." He turned and waved a hand. "Micky - you explain it."

"Because we're not that kind of show," Micky said immediately.

Davy crossed the floor to stand in front of Peter. But even though Davy was so familiar to him that Peter could have painted him with his eyes closed (provided the canvas was set up right in front of him, and not slightly to the left), in that moment his face looked like a whole other language to Peter, one he didn't speak and couldn't translate.

"You like him," Davy said. "And he's just _gone_ on _you_ - any idiot can see that."

"Hey Pete - did you know that Neil had a crush on you?" Micky asked.

Peter shook his head. "What? No! He - no."

"So much for that 'any idiot' theory."

"I'm just saying - it's obvious he really appreciates you" -

Mike made a strangled kind of sound in the back of his throat and immediately slapped a hand over Micky's mouth, muffling his response.

"Mmgh mmggh hsdhhf hfhfh!"

" - for who you are, and you…_deserve_ that. So, maybe you should. Date him," he added unnecessarily.

"Remember when our biggest problem was dealing with random inexplicable kidnappings?" Micky said as soon as he had wriggled free of Mike's hand. He sighed. "Man, it was all so simple back then."

* * *

Peter too kind of missed the halcyon days of chance abductions and bizarre entanglements with malicious yet inept criminals. He _understood _those.

Well, actually, no, he generally didn't - but he at least knew how to _deal_ with those situations. It helped that usually, there were only two options - run, or wait to be rescued, and depending on whether or not he was tied up, it was pretty easy to choose which path to follow.

But here, in the bedroom he shared with Davy, it wasn't like he needed to be rescued.

And even though he wasn't tied up, running wasn't going to solve anything either.

Really, it didn't seem like there was a problem at all. Davy wasn't mad. He didn't seem to be hurt - even though every so often Peter's mind confused him on that issue, laying down the memory of Davy's face when he'd seen him and Neil like a winning hand in poker.

Still, there was a faint ache in his chest when he breathed, and it had everything to do with the fact that Davy was now advising him to date other boys.

"It really just happened," he offered, when he couldn't keep it inside any longer. "The kiss, I mean." Davy hadn't said anything else about it, and it didn't look like he was going to, but Peter felt like he might explode if he didn't say something.

"You don't have to explain anything to me," Davy said, very simply. Even though he smiled a little as he said it, for once, it didn't make Peter want to smile back.

"What you said - about me dating Neil," he said, and swallowed. "Did you mean it?"

Davy was quiet for a minute. Then, "Yeah. I did." He sat down on his bed, facing Peter. "He's really hung up on you, anyone can see it, and you - you should have that."

Really, he was saying nice things about Peter, so it didn't make much sense for Peter to feel like each word was a toothpick, relentlessly stabbing him with disappointment.

"So, if you like him, then - yeah, you should go for it," Davy said.

"Is that what you want?" Peter managed to ask.

Davy stared up at the ceiling for a minute, before looking back at him. "It's got nothing to do with me," he said, with a shake of his head. "What I want...I want you to do – what _you _want."

He had sliced himself out of the situation with a precision that left Peter breathless. It took real effort to concentrate on his next words.

He sat forward slightly, gaze soft, but intent. "So - don't think about anyone else. What do _you _want, Pete?"

"I want," he said, and it was easy to say those words while looking into Davy's brown eyes_. _ The rest of the sentence was slightly harder to find however - since wanting to go back to yesterday, to kissing Davy without fear of the consequences, was probably short-sighted and harmful in the long-run.

As well as inconveniently requiring the development of a time-travel machine.

He settled for, "I want us to be friends," words squeezing past a sudden tightness in his throat.

Davy smiled at him, a genuine smile that seemed to him to be just a little worn at the edges. "S'a bit of a waste, to want that," he said. "Since it's already true."

* * *

Lying awake in the dark, later, staring up at the ceiling and taking stock of the situation, Peter guessed everything had worked out for the best. Sure, Davy's unwavering support and kindly matchmaking made him feel like he'd had salt rubbed into his heart, but...

...but...if that was how he felt a mere day after he'd kissed Davy...how much worse would it have felt if it had happened later? If they'd thrown themselves into this thing, and actually dated? He didn't think he could have borne it if he'd _had _Davy, if Davy's kisses and smiles and touches had all been for him...only for Davy to then fall for some girl-who-wasn't-Peter and try to present him with a boyfriend-who-wasn't-Davy as some kind of consolation prize, and act like...

...and act like that was okay, because, to him, it _was_. Because to Davy, love was a short-term thing, and he was never going to understand Peter's long-haul feelings.

So it was a relief for all that to be brought into the open now, when it didn't hurt...as much.

And, after all, the most important thing was that he still had Davy as a friend, and in the end, that was the only thing he really needed.

He closed his eyes, and let the memory of kissing Davy play out, one last time.

And then once more.

The next morning, after they'd finished practicing (Davy was becoming quite proficient at singing from a height), they tidied away their instruments and Mike exchanged a significant look with Davy, before saying, "Well...I guess, we oughta head out, let you and Neil have some privacy."

"I don't even know if he's coming over today," Peter said.

"Still - just in case he does. I mean, you two have a lot to talk about, and you probably don't want us underfoot."

"Just - make sure 'talk' is all you do," Micky warned him with a sniff. "It takes more than soap and water to get rid of a reputation, you know!"

And so, Peter was left alone in the Pad...eventually, as Mike and Davy almost had to drag Micky away. Now fully committed to the mother-hen persona, he continued to shout advice like, "Remember - keep your feet on the floor, your hands above the waist, and don't leave the stove on!" as the door shut behind him.

Peter wandered around aimlessly for a while, as time ticked away and Neil didn't appear. He had a horrible feeling that he wasn't _going_ to appear either, whenever he replayed the last, stumbling exit Neil had made from the Pad. It had felt...strangely final.

To distract himself, Peter tried to make something edible from the leftovers in their fridge. Since the cupboards had returned to their lonely, pre-Harvey state, the first obstacle was to _find _some leftovers. On one shelf he located something green that had probably once been a slice of bread, but was now a thriving colony of mold, on another, he found a three-quarters empty jar of peanut butter, two soft crackers and a packet of celery-flavored Jell-O. In the refrigerator, there was butter, an envelope with a safety pin and three shirt buttons, and a pitcher containing about a glass' worth of cherry kool-aid. After careful consideration, Peter removed the envelope with the safety pin and the buttons from the pile, and began assembling the remaining ingredients into a concoction that might one day successfully impersonate a stew.

It came as a surprise to him when he heard the Pad door open.

"Hey guys," he called out, "How do you feel about mold as a garnish?"

There was a silence before Neil's voice called back, "If I'm honest, not real good."

Peter hurried out of the kitchen. "Neil! You're here!"

He shrugged and half-smiled.

Peter smiled back, wide, relieved. "Boy, am I glad to see you. I know it's silly, but I kind of thought...after yesterday - that you might not come back."

Neil studied the floor. "I wasn't going to," he admitted, before looking up, directly at Peter. "But then I figured - a friend would. A friend would come back and make sure his friend was okay. So...here I am."

"Thank you," Peter said. "You're a really good friend, you know."

Neil jerked his head to the side, like he was playing it off, though he seemed pleased, then frowned and said, "Do I smell something burning?"

Suddenly, Peter realised, "I left the stove on!" and hurried back to the kitchen, where it looked like, rather than coalescing into a cooperative stew, the individual ingredients had chosen to start an inedible brawl.

Neil helped him to tidy up, and afterwards, they sat at the kitchen table. "I'd offer you something to eat, if I had anything," Peter said, conscious of the bare table.

"It's okay," Neil told him. "After what we just cleaned up, I...don't think I could accept it anyway." He cleared his throat. "So - how are you? You know - after...everything?" He directed a concerned glance to Peter's left.

"Oh. Okay," Peter said, because if you didn't count a profound and possibly permanent case of romantic malaise, it was true.

"Good," Neil said, and, "Good," again. "You and Jones...managed to patch things up then?"

"We're friends." His smile felt like a too small piece of clothing.

Neil scrutinized him. "So - you're not...you didn't..." he fumbled delicately.

"We're just friends," Peter said. The faint pain in his chest echoed a little with every word.

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "It's okay," he said, because it mostly was. "You were right. It wasn't the same, for Davy. It would have been a mistake."

"He seemed kind of upset yesterday," Neil said. He was frowning at Peter in concern, and his right arm jerked on the table but he didn't reach out to take Peter's hand. He guessed, given what had happened yesterday, he could understand.

"It wasn't...I think he was just surprised. When he came back, he said everything was okay." Peter tried on another of those size-too-small smiles. "He even told me I should date you."

Neil's hands gave a sudden twitch, fingers curling in towards his palms, but his voice was steady as he observed, "That's cold."

"No, Davy's not cold," Peter said, because the only other word that possibly provided a more inappropriate description of Davy was 'tall.' "It's just - it's...different for him."

Davy spread love like a bee spread pollen. And just like you couldn't tie a bee down to one flower, it wouldn't be fair, or even feasible to tie Davy down to one person. It simply wasn't in his nature.

"He's an idiot," Neil said with finality. Peter didn't say anything, because he knew it was kindly meant.

"But" - Neil glanced down at his hands, tapping each finger against the table in turn, oddly delicate. "He was right about one thing." He suddenly looked up, meeting Peter's eyes squarely. "I do like you, and I would. I would date you."

All Peter could do was look back as Neil continued, with a kind of determination in his words and face that caught Peter straight in the heart, like a fish-hook. "You're the best person I ever met. And I know - I know I'm not good enough for you, and you probably don't even feel the same way about me, but if you _did_ - if you just let me try...I would do my best to make you happy. Because I'm not an idiot. And I just - want you to know that."

And suddenly, he understood why Davy'd taken the news that Peter was in love with him so hard, and exactly why Mike had called love a responsibility - because even though he'd never searched it out, or encouraged it, Neil was sitting across from him with his heart in his eyes, and Peter felt – accountable for that. Because...he'd brought Neil to this place. The guy he'd met, the guy he'd sat with outside the Pad in the morning sunshine all that time ago...he would have taken his pushed-down feelings home, and he would have stayed there, if it hadn't been for Peter. And now, here he was, face open and resolute, declaring his affection to another boy, for another boy - for _Peter_.

That was a good thing, in a lot of ways. But it was a delicate thing too - and Peter was...he was responsible for it. Responsible for Neil. Mike was right - love really was an obligation, and when someone handed you their heart, it was your job not to trample on it.

"It's okay," Neil said. "You don't have to - I just wanted to say it. Put it out there, I guess. Just in case."

He thought about Davy, who'd never glanced at another boy with anything more than friendly intent, trying so very hard to _look_ at Peter and see the same thing he saw when he looked into a pretty girl's eyes. He understood why now.

Because...if you could do more than 'not trample' someone's heart...if it was in your power to return any little bit of their feelings at all...

...wasn't it your _duty_ to do just that?

He took a breath, and looked at Neil.

"Okay," he said, and reached out across the table and took Neil's hand in his.


	12. Chapter 12

Notes: Would anyone believe we're coasting toward an inevitable happy-ever-after in a couple more chapters? And that shit is totally being straightened out, even if it doesn't look like it? Anyone?

...anyone? Bueller?

* * *

As decisions went, taking Neil's hand was the most satisfying one Peter had ever made. He didn't think he'd ever made anyone that happy – and he hadn't even really _done_ anything.

Of course, as decisions went, taking Neil's hand was also the most terrifying one Peter had ever made. He didn't think he'd ever made anyone that happy – and he hadn't even really done_ anything_.

Neil just sat across the kitchen table, staring down at their joined hands with disbelieving joy on his face. When he finally looked up, he said, "For real?"

Peter took a breath. "For real."

Neil's grip on his hand tightened, and his eyes roamed Peter's face like he was trying to commit it to memory. "I can't believe it," he said, almost to himself. "I mean – I'm here, but…I can't believe it. I never thought…"

The expression on his face softened the lines of his mouth and widened his eyes, opening up his countenance in a way that suited him. But it sent a wave of cold uncertainty washing down Peter's spine. Because Neil wasn't looking at him like he liked Peter, or even like he _loved _him. He was looking at him like – like every hope he had of happiness was all tied up in Peter.

He hadn't done anything to deserve someone looking at him like that. He hadn't encouraged it, or even gone looking for it – but somehow, he still felt as if he'd tricked Neil somehow. All he'd done was be himself, and surely that didn't merit this kind of devotion?

Responsibility pressed down heavily on his shoulders like a pair of hands.

But he took another deep breath, and reminded himself that – if he hadn't done anything to _make _Neil feel the way he felt, then surely, all he had to do to keep Neil happy was to continue being himself. And being himself was much easier than being someone else.

Peter could be himself without even thinking. He smiled at Neil.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

The one drawback of his decision suddenly made itself known. "I guess…the next thing we need to do is – tell Mike and Micky. And Davy."

Neil blinked, as if the idea had never occurred to him, but he nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you oughta tell them." He stopped. "I mean – you don't have to tell them _everything,_ you know. Just – the facts."

Peter wasn't entirely sure what 'everything' consisted of, and how it could be separated from 'the facts' – it seemed as arbitrary as trying to filter out sand grains from a pile of dust. "You can tell them with me, if you want," he offered.

"You…want me there? When you're telling your friends?"

Peter nodded. "I don't see why not. Actually you really should be there – considering that now you're my b" –

Neil's sudden sharp bark of laughter made him jump. It seemed to startle Neil too, because he stopped for a few moments and shook his head as if to clear it. He had an odd, puzzled kind of smile as he said, "Funny. I kinda thought _you_ would be _my_…you know – whatever. But I guess…I guess we'll figure it out as we go along."

The puzzled smile lingered for a few more seconds, and he shook his head again before saying, "But – they're your friends, and – _you_ tell them. I should probably be going anyway."

He stared down at their still-joined hands, before leaning across the table and instigating another of those fumbling, gentle kisses.

The awkwardness was strangely endearing, and suddenly, wordlessly cemented in Peter's mind that he had done the right thing.

Because if it made someone else so very happy, then…it _had _to be the right thing.

* * *

"So – you and Neil," Mike said, carefully. "That's…that's…"

"A sign of America's continuing unchecked descent into dissolution and debauchery?" Micky suggested.

Mike stared at him for a moment before enunciating, "Nice. I guess."

"Isn't that what I said?" Micky wondered.

"It is nice. I guess," Peter said. He couldn't stop his eyes from darting over to Davy, who hadn't uttered a word since he'd told them about Neil. He stood, staring at the ground, seemingly lost in thought, but when he felt Peter's gaze, he looked up.

"If you're happy, I'm happy," he said. He even smiled.

"We all want Pete to be happy," Mike said. "Just – I want to be sure it's the right thing for him to do, too."

Peter thought about the sheer uncomplicated happiness on Neil's face and the fact that he was responsible for that. "It's the right thing to do," he said.

Davy went very still for a moment, but when he shrugged in Mike's direction, and said, "Sounds settled to me," he sounded completely normal.

"Settled?" Micky asked, pursing his lips. "_Settled? _What do we even know about this boy? Who are his parents? Does he come from good stock? If he takes Peter out to a formal dinner will he even know the right cutlery to use?"

"Will Peter?" Mike countered.

Micky inclined his head and dropped the act. "Okay, it's settled. I guess this means we can get back to normal. Stop worrying. Finally start thinking about other things."

He exchanged glances with Mike and Davy, before slumping. "Yeah. That's…what I figured."

* * *

Later that night, Peter sat at the foot of his bed and watched Davy move around the room.

It – the bedroom he shared with Davy – had always been a kind of…not a refuge, exactly, but…a haven for him. At the end of the day, it was just the two of them, sometimes silent, sometimes not, falling asleep to the sound of each other's breathing – comfortable, comforting.

Even when Davy had found out that Peter loved him, and everything had become more complicated, when it came down to it, it was still just the two of them, in their room. Even that first awful night when Davy had found out about his feelings, and Peter had tried to sleep on the couch, unsure if there was still a place for him…Davy'd come to find him, to bring him back. Like, no matter how bad things were on the surface, their foundation was unshakeable.

Like…that was where he _belonged_, in that little room, with Davy.

But now, it felt like someone or something had intruded into their space, inhibiting their customary ease with one another.

The worst part was, only Peter seemed to feel it. Davy just seemed preoccupied, moving here and there with a determined air.

"Are you going somewhere?" Peter asked finally, though it was obvious that he was.

Davy paused, startled. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. There's this party…" he shrugged.

"Oh," Peter said. "Okay."

Davy didn't offer anything else, and he finished getting ready in silence, frowning at himself in the mirror. Davy going to parties was nothing new, but there was something here that seemed wrong to Peter. Maybe it was the odd purposefulness that with which Davy was readying himself – like he wasn't going to a party so much as preparing for a date with destiny. Maybe it was his sudden disinclination to talk. Maybe it was the way he'd taken Peter's news so well, but he hadn't really looked at Peter since. Not properly.

Peter was unsettled, and a question lodged in his throat like a stone as the minutes crept past, but it wasn't until Davy tossed his comb on the bed with an air of finality that he found the courage to blurt out, "Is something wrong?"

Davy looked at him.

"I mean – us. Are we okay?"

The determined crease between Davy's eyebrows eased, and the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "Of course we are," he said simply, and he reached out and cupped Peter's jaw with his hand – gentle and brief – a touch hardly felt before it was withdrawn again.

He kept looking at Peter, and as he did, some of the resolve crept back into his expression. "I just – I have a few things I need to sort out."

He hesitated at the bedroom door, but in the end, all he said was, "Don't wait up."

* * *

The thing was…Peter didn't _mean _to, but – it was hard getting to sleep without Davy in the next bed. He kept drifting off, snatching a few scattered stretches of sleep, only to wake up again, jarred anew by Davy's continued absence. Time seemed to drag, and then suddenly skip in a way that was very disconcerting.

Finally, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He contemplated the unrumpled blankets and undented pillow opposite him for a moment, before getting to his feet and padding to the kitchen to get a drink of water.

At least – that was the plan. However, just as he stepped out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, he heard the sound of a key in the lock of the Pad door.

Davy was back. The tension inside him finally eased.

" – just need to be quiet," Davy whispered.

Davy wasn't alone.

Well – that was…that was to be expected, really. Except – he _hadn't_ expected it, for some reason, and that made him hesitate for a fraction of a second, before pushing the bedroom door open again, preparing to give Davy some privacy.

"I can be quiet," came a familiar, amused voice.

He stopped, shock rooting him to the spot as Eddie Carey stepped past Davy and strolled inside the Pad.

The just-vacated tension returned, and brought some friends – unease and apprehension. Peter shrank back near the bedroom door, making himself as small as possible.

It was still dark inside the Pad, because Davy hadn't turned on the light, but Peter had no trouble following Eddie Carey's movements as he sauntered over and dropped onto the couch, before asking, "Can I sit?"

Davy tilted his head. "Going by the evidence, I'd say yes."

Eddie Carey laughed, low and unabashed before saying, drawing out the words, like every one gave him some secret enjoyment, "So – what did you think?"

Davy didn't answer, and he pressed, "_The Salty Watermelon. _Did it live up to expectations?"

There was a pause. "It was – different than I thought it would be," Davy said finally.

"I have to say – I was surprised to see you there."

Davy shrugged. "Well, you did owe me a drink."

"And I paid up," Eddie Carey reminded him. He looked over at Davy. "Aren't you going to sit down?"

There was a moment's hesitation before Davy crossed over to the couch. Peter found himself clutching the bedroom doorknob behind his back for comfort – though he really didn't know why. He didn't know why he was still standing there. He didn't know why he was still listening. He didn't know why he could feel his heart beating fast, or why there was this lump of anxiety in his stomach.

He didn't _know…_but he could _feel_ why, the way small animals sensed predators. Whenever a rabbit stood stock still in a field, ears up, it probably wasn't consciously thinking, 'Oh no, I'm about to get ripped to shreds by a fox' – but it could taste the threat in the air, a menace that wasn't any less real for being vague and ambiguous.

Davy sat, and though _he_ didn't appear to feel it, it seemed to Peter that the air hummed with danger.

"Thanks," he said, as he perched on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, forearms on his knees. "For showing me around."

"That's okay. Not like I minded." Eddie Carey tilted his head to the side. In a different tone he asked, "Why tonight?"

Even though it was dark, and the two sitting on the couch were nothing more than dim outlines, Peter knew Davy so well that he could see his small shrug as clear as day. "Just felt like it, I s'pose."

There was a pause as Eddie absorbed this. "All right," he said. "But - you want to know why_ I_ think you showed up?"

Without waiting for an answer, he leaned forward and kissed Davy.

Over by the door, Peter jerked, and his heart gave one colossal thump in his chest.

It only lasted a moment. Then Eddie Carey pulled away and said, as if this was all part of a normal conversation, " – _that's_ what I think." He leaned back on the couch. "So…am I right?"

For a few moments, all Peter could see was the back of Davy's head as he stared down. Then, carefully, he got to his feet, absently wandering over towards the staircase. Peter sucked in a breath, and pressed himself further into the shadows, but while he could see Davy's face quite clearly, though it was bisected by the balusters, Davy didn't look through the bars to where Peter was standing just a few feet away. Instead he just stood there for a few moments, that same determined look on his face, before turning around to face Eddie Carey again.

"This is a new one for me," he said conversationally. "S'not the kind of thing I've ever done. Never really even thought about it before."

Eddie Carey got to his feet. "I like you, kid," he said. "Plus you've still got some points with me, so I'm going to give you a tip." He took a step toward Davy, and said, "There's a time where all this open, just-trying-to-understand stuff stops looking so admirable, and starts looking like a _tease_. And someday, someone's going to call you out on wasting their time…and they're not going to be as nice as me about it."

He went to move past Davy, and Peter closed his eyes in relief – only for them to snap open again as Davy said, "Wait," and caught Eddie Carey by the arm.

Eddie Carey turned back, but he didn't say anything. The atmosphere seemed to thicken and charge, buzzing with danger. Peter wanted to call out, to tell Davy to let Eddie go, because it looked to him like Davy was playing with a snake, and the one thing Peter knew for sure about snakes, and suspected about Eddie Carey…was that they _bit. _

But he didn't say anything, and instead of letting go, Davy said, "I'm not a tease, y'know."

"You're not?"

"Let you walk me home, didn't I?" Davy didn't sound confident as much as he sounded like he was _trying _to sound confident – though that was a distinction that seemed to be lost on Eddie Carey.

"You did," he said. "Why?"

Davy looked at him. "You know why," he said.

"Sure – _I_ know why," Eddie said. "I just wasn't sure _you_ did."

Peter could see his teeth in the dimness as he smiled. It felt like his heart was being squeezed tightly in someone's fist.

"I do," Davy told him. "That's not what I'm trying to say."

Eddie Carey stepped back a little – a very little. "Okay," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "So tell me what you're saying."

"I'm saying…this is new. To me. And" – Davy stopped, and swallowed audibly, "And – maybe I'm not so good at it. Yet."

"Looks to me like you're doing okay so far," Eddie Carey said. His voice was almost kind.

Davy ignored him. "So – you need to tell me."

"Tell you?"

"What to do. How to make it good for someone. I need to know – how to make it…good."

"You want _tips_?" Eddie Carey shook his head. "You…keep surprising me, you know that?" Peter could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Okay."

"Okay?" Davy repeated.

"Yeah. I can show you what to do," Eddie said. He reached out and touched Davy's face with his left hand, and Peter felt like he was suffocating, like someone had sealed him inside a dry-cleaning bag, lungs screaming for air where there was none.

"Just – you remember what I told you, before? About why most people are scared of us?"

"Because it's easy?" Davy said. "Yeah. I remember."

"Great. Because it's true here too."

Davy nodded. "Good."

Eddie Carey dropped his hands by his sides, and cocked his head to the side, a challenge. "You know, I'm getting pretty tired of talking, so…if you've got moves, you'd better lay them on me. Quick."

Peter could see Davy clench his fingers into fists, steeling himself, but it still came as a complete and utter shock to him when Davy pushed up on the soles of his feet, took hold of Eddie Carey's shoulders, and kissed him.

All he could do was shake his head wildly because Eddie Carey was pulling Davy in close, pressing up against him, and Davy was angling his head to the side, and Peter couldn't – he just_ couldn't._

Except, it was happening – and he _had_ to, because he couldn't stop looking, eyes dry as sandpaper, almost uncomprehending, as Eddie Carey pushed Davy back against the stair railings, and Davy pushed right back, arms sliding around Eddie's neck.

When they finally pulled apart, Davy tipped his head up and said, almost challengingly, "So?"

One hand came up to touch his face as Eddie said, "Not bad." His voice sounded soft, fond. But a hint of amusement coloured his next words as he suggested, "But maybe we could move this tutorial somewhere a little more comfortable?" He jerked his head towards the couch, and when Davy didn't say anything, he spread his hands innocently. "Hey – it's not my fault you're ready for the advanced classes."

Davy's laugh was surprised, but sincere. He looked at Eddie. "You'll tell me?"

Eddie took his hand. "Everything. I promise. You know me - I'll take being honest over being nice, any day of the week."

"I know," Davy said. "That's why. I figured I could count on you to tell me how to be better, _do_ better at this."

"You ready?" Eddie asked, taking a step backwards. He tugged on Davy's hand and he followed.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm ready," and he let Eddie lead him over to the couch.

And Peter _couldn't, _this time he really, truly _couldn't_, as they sat, only for Eddie Carey to wordlessly urge Davy lower, and for Davy to _let _him…

He fumbled with the doorknob behind him, trying to turn it with hands that felt like they were wearing oven gloves, and finally stepping back into the safety of the bedroom. He softly closed the door behind him.

He stood for a few moments in the middle of the floor, before making his way over to the bed on stiff feet, and lying down. He pulled the covers up around his ears and curled up.

The thing was…the thing was…it wasn't even surprising, really. Or – it shouldn't have been.

If you showed Davy a mountain, and told him there was the possibility of finding love at the top, Davy would roll up his sleeves and start climbing. The situation with Peter, and Peter's feelings…well, obviously, that had just opened Davy up to the possibility that boys were a mountaintop he hadn't fully explored yet.

He should have expected it.

And – it shouldn't make him feel…the way he felt, watching Davy and Eddie. Because he loved Davy, yes, but it wasn't as if he _owned _Davy – and he'd always known that. Davy'd brought girls around before, and Peter had never, ever felt that awful, clutching pain in his chest before. He'd never felt such an overwhelming sensation of _wrongness _when Davy kissed someone else – like he was supposed to be kissing Peter instead.

He stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. It didn't make sense. And it wasn't _fair. _Davy was a person, not a possession – and Peter'd never had any problem loving him without – without _expectation, _before.

But something had changed, and he knew exactly what it was, too. And what he had to do.

Carefully, he brought out the memory of Davy kissing him and him kissing Davy. If it had been a physical possession, it would have been worn at the seams from all the times Peter had taken it out to hold. It would have been creased and frayed and threadbare from handling. But instead, it remained intangible, still pristine and fresh.

Peter closed his eyes, and breathed in, and _felt _it, as hard as he could – as if, if he only tried hard enough, he could make it real again, compel Davy into being in this room and kissing him again, instead of out on the couch, with Eddie Carey…

And then he breathed out, and really, truly, let it go.

It wasn't easy, something in him kept trying to snatch the memory back, like a kid with a balloon, testing to see how far he could let it drift before pulling it back safely. But he stayed calm and still, and breathed, and breathed, and finally, finally he was able to let the memory float up into the darkness and disappear.

Then he just lay there, empty and aching, and when Davy quietly opened the bedroom door, he couldn't tell whether he'd been waiting for a long time, or only a few short minutes. He didn't try to figure it out, either.


	13. Chapter 13

When he woke up the next morning, he felt…dry, mostly. Like his stomach was crammed full of silica gel packets.

If you didn't count that, though, he was fine.

It was strange – as he sat at the kitchen table looking down at his jellybeans on toast and trying not to stare at Davy, he couldn't help but think that everything should be…different. Well, everything _was _different – he just couldn't shake the feeling that things should be _more _different. Visibly different.

Every time he caught Davy's eyes, it jolted him, because Davy looked so utterly and absolutely _the same. _He looked exactly like he had yesterday, and the day before, and two weeks ago – and he _shouldn't_…because last night he'd invited Eddie Carey into the Pad, and onto the couch – and changed everything. So it wasn't right for Peter to meet his gaze over the breakfast table and feel that familiar heart-tug like it was yesterday, or the day before, or two weeks ago.

Every time it happened, it took him a second to remember – and then he just felt…stupid. Eddie Carey had always made him feel like that. Because _of course_ if Davy was going to date guys he'd pick someone like Eddie Carey, someone who was smart, and funny, the kind of person who could just take his hand and pull him over to the couch like that was what Davy wanted. Because it was. Just – with someone who wasn't Peter.

Really, if you looked at it logically, it worked out well for Davy. There were a lot of people who weren't Peter out there.

Still, he could barely choke down his jellybeans waiting for Davy to wax rhapsodic about Eddie Carey being the most wonderful, most amazing, most perfect person in the world.

But…oddly enough, that never happened.

* * *

As Davy and Micky set out the instruments for their practice, and Mike and Peter cleared up after breakfast, Mike asked, "Are you all right?"

Peter blinked. "I'm fine."

"I mean – with everything that's happened, with Neil and all…I thought I oughta check."

"I'm fine," he repeated.

"Good. Well – good. I mean – that's good, because well, you want to be sure you're doing the right thing, because it's a difficult situation you've got there."

"I'm doing the right thing," Peter assured him, but Mike squinted up at the ceiling and didn't answer, so Peter found himself saying, "It's – you were right. What you said about love – being a responsibility. So, I'm taking responsibility." The worried look didn't lift from Mike's face. Instead it seemed to settle in, as if it planned to stay a while.

"Don't worry," Peter told him, "This time it's going to work out better than when I took responsibility for Mrs O' Malley's rock garden."

The worried look seemed to congeal on Mike's face. "Uh-huh," he said. He stopped. "Well. See. The thing is – sure, love's a responsibility…but – it shouldn't be a _chore_, you dig?"

"Of course it's not a chore," Peter said.

"Well, that's good. For a second I thought" –

"If it was a chore, we'd have to draw up a rota between the four of us…and I don't think Neil would be down with that."

Mike blinked. "Probably – not," he agreed. He took hold of Peter's elbow, forcing him to look straight at him. "But – what I'm tryin' to get at is…you can't just give someone a relationship just because you feel like they deserve it. You're a person, Pete, not a merit badge."

His eyes were kind and his hand on Peter's elbow was gentle, and Peter knew exactly what he meant, because even though Davy liked him, he couldn't _love _him, and Eddie Carey was the one he wanted to touch, and kiss, and maybe even sleep with – Peter didn't know exactly what had happened on that couch last night. Merit didn't have a whole lot to do with it, and Peter had always known that. Just because you decided you loved Davy Jones, didn't mean the universe then owed you one Davy Jones.

He understood that perfectly – but, when it came to Neil, it was different. Because he made Neil happy, and he _liked _making Neil happy. He _wanted _to make him happy. What harm could it do to make someone else happy? After all, it wasn't like there was a queue stretching around the block requiring Peter's assistance to be truly happy. Just this one person. This one person who he could help – so, why wouldn't he?

"I like Neil," he said, and it was the truth, the absolute truth, so he didn't know why that worried look was still on Mike's face, even as he said, "Okay then."

Maybe the wind had changed.

* * *

The first thing Neil wanted to know, when he appeared later that day, was, "How did Jones take it?"

A picture of Eddie Carey and Davy flashed across Peter's mind, quick and paralyzing.

But Neil was still looking at him, so he swallowed and said, "Pretty well, actually."

"Good," Neil said. "I figured he might get worked up about it." He looked at Peter. "You sure he didn't say anything to you about it?"

Peter shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing bad, anyway. I told you, he thinks…it's a good idea."

"Yeah, well – once he doesn't change his mind, is all."

Another whip-flick of memory – sudden and stinging. "That's not going to happen," Peter said – and he reached out and took Neil's hand in his.

And that was that.

* * *

The thing he dreaded most was Davy bringing Eddie Carey around to the Pad. Not in the dead of night – as hard as that had been…but during the day. The same way he'd bring a girlfriend around. For some reason, he couldn't imagine Eddie Carey being content to hang tight in the background, and it just made him feel small and miserable imagining Eddie Carey standing next to Davy, then looking at Peter and saying something sly, making Davy laugh and making him feel stupid.

Even more stupid.

But a couple of days went by, and Davy didn't seem inclined to rhapsodize over Eddie's wonderfulness, or his intelligence, or his…his hair, or eyes, or smile. He didn't disappear off to any other unexplained parties either.

Peter tried not to feel relieved. He was Davy's friend, after all, and friends were supposed to want their friends to be happy. He _did _want Davy to be happy. Just…not with Eddie.

But slowly, as Davy steadfastly remained clear-eyed and sigh-free, the looming threat of Eddie Carey eased, and so did the small, tight knot in Peter's chest.

Neil kept coming around, too, and whenever they were alone, he'd reach out to hold Peter's hand, or touch his face, or lean in and kiss him, or sometimes just sit back and look at him, that new unguarded expression on his face.

Happy, Peter supposed was the name for it.

As for Peter himself, he was – content. It was nice. It was nice to talk to Neil, and hold his hand. It was nice to kiss him, and it was nice to make him look so open and free and happy.

It was nice and it made Peter feel…content. And content was really just another word for 'happy' when all was said and done, so he guessed what he was trying to say was that he was…

…content.

* * *

It happened when their practice ran long and Neil came in a little early. He waited just inside the door, even though Peter had beckoned him closer with a smile when he'd arrived. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as they finished their last song.

After they'd finished up, Peter came over and pulled him right into the middle of the room.

"If you're busy, I can come back later," he said, shaking his hand out of Peter's grip.

"We were just practicing for our gig at _The Sasquatch,_" he said. "But we're done now. We're playing there tomorrow night, so" –

"So I won't swing by tomorrow. Check," Neil finished.

"Actually" – they both turned to Davy, who shrugged at Neil and said, "You should come. To the club, I mean. See Peter do his thing."

Peter blinked at him. Neil said, "I've seen you guys play before."

"Well yeah," Davy admitted, "But you had other things on your mind back then. Like…ripping me into pieces. This time, you could just sit back and enjoy the music. Keep your focus where it belongs." He smiled. "When Pete plays, it's…really something. You'll be impressed."

Peter smiled back at him, touched.

"You don't need to tell me he's good," Neil said. "I know he is."

Davy held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just saying, maybe you want to come is all."

"Guess someone else is gonna be getting that Monkees' biggest fan trophy," Micky observed from behind them.

Neil turned to Peter, and asked, "Do you want me to go?"

"I guess…it _would_ be nice," Peter said. It did give him a small, happy thrill to imagine someone out there in the audience of _The Sasquatch _who'd come specially for _him, _to see him play.

"Well – if it's important to you…I'll be there," Neil said.

* * *

They all stood guard at the back alley of _The Sasquatch _while Davy maneuvered himself onto his stilts, and into the extremely long pants Mike had talked their neighbour, Miss Quick, into whipping up for them in exchange for finding a lost scarlet macaw parrot (a more difficult proposition that it appeared at first glance, since it turned out that Miss Quick hadn't ever owned a scarlet macaw parrot).

There was one awkward moment when one of Davy's stilts got caught inside a garbage can, but apart from that, they made it inside the club without further incident. Davy had to duck to make it through the entrance, which made the manager hurry over to them, a starstruck look on his face.

"And who might this be?" he asked, tilting his head to look up at Davy.

"This might be our maraca-player, Davy Jones," Mike said.

"But it's kinda hard to tell," Micky said, "Since he's so far away." He pointed upwards.

"Now this, _this _is what I call a man," the manager said.

"That's funny – because it's what we call a scam," Micky said brightly.

The manager clapped Davy on the back, causing him to grab wildly at Mike's shoulder in order to stay upright.

"I'll show you guys around and let you get set up," the manager said. "Say – Mr Jones…you don't have a girlfriend, do you? Because I have a daughter and…"

Davy followed him through the club, picking his way across the floor like a wary gazelle.

"I thought you were the one he was gonna introduce to his daughter," Peter said, as they trailed behind.

"It's all right," Mike said. "It's a little hard getting to know a girl when she has to bend down to look you in the eyes." He blew out a breath, watching Davy and the manager closely. "Well," he said, "So far…so good."

Micky seemed to agree but asked, "Just outta curiosity…Davy's practiced running away in those things, right?"

Mike nodded.

* * *

But as it turned out, they didn't need to worry about Davy's ability to run-while-several-feet-off-the-ground. It never even seemed to occur to the manager that Davy was a small-scale person impersonating an altogether more altitudinous being.

Of course, nine times out of ten, the suspicion that a hired maraca player was secretly wearing stilts was too ridiculous to be the slightest bit plausible – still, when it came to the Monkees, people tended to immediately focus on that one in ten chance. They were just lucky like that, Peter guessed.

But here, the expected unmasking didn't transpire, which served to make them all, not just Davy, feel a little off balance.

And then, it happened. Or rather…it didn't happen. As the club slowly filled with people, and they realised that they were going to actually get to _play _this gig…

…Neil didn't appear.

More and more people crowded in, and Peter craned his neck to try and stare between them. Given the above-average height of the clientele, it was like trying to stare through a forest of sequoias, and for a little while, he comforted himself with the thought that maybe Neil _was _there, just…hidden behind someone even taller.

But on the stage, Davy was taller than anyone in the audience, and every so often, he scanned the crowd before turning back to Peter and giving a small shake of his head.

Finally, Mike looked at Peter and said, "We really oughta get this show on the road."

Peter nodded, because Mike was right, and they couldn't wait around all night. So they played, and it was – good. Except that some small spark of excitement deep inside him seemed to have been quenched. He was playing for a crowd of people, but…not for anyone special.

Between songs, he looked around, hoping that Neil might've come in a little late, but all too soon, they were playing their last song, and to a person, the faces in front of him remained resolutely and entirely un-Neil.

They finished, and Peter tried to smile as they came off the stage, but he felt a little bit like a soda that had gone flat.

"Are you all right?" Davy asked, placing a hand on his shoulder and bending down to speak into his ear.

Peter looked up at Davy, something that made him feel even more askew, and said, "Yeah."

"You were really good," he said. "Something must have happened – because he wouldn't have wanted to miss it."

Peter nodded and smiled a little, a real one this time. "Thanks."

"We can stay for a while, if you want," Davy told him. "Just in case, you know."

"It's okay," Peter said. "It's getting late and" –

"We can wait," Mike said, putting a hand on his other shoulder. "Hey – we oughta celebrate anyway. Our first gig at _The Sasquatch, _and we didn't even get tossed out the door."

"I guess that is a reason to celebrate," Peter had to agree.

So they made their way to the bar, Davy taking graceful, precarious stork steps, and found some seats. The manager insisted on paying for a round of milk, noting, "Good for growing bones. Explains this one, ha?" as he patted Davy approvingly on the back.

"I don't think we've come up with a real scientific explanation for Davy yet," Micky told him, grabbing his glass. A couple of minutes later, and the tallest girl Peter had ever seen sashayed toward them and planted herself on the bar stool nearest to Davy, urged on by the manager, who then beckoned Micky and Mike away, clearly hoping for some statuesque sparks to develop.

Peter stared down into his glass. He wasn't thirsty, and the faint feeling of disappointment lingered – though there really wasn't much reason for it, since they'd played a good gig, booked a second one, and to top it all Davy hadn't been exposed as a less-than-immense person on stilts. And he knew that Davy was right – and that Neil wouldn't have missed the performance on purpose. When you added everything up, it all equaled, if not outright delight, then at least a sturdy kind of satisfaction.

But Peter had never been very good at Math, and the total of his mood remained resolutely low.

But, even though Davy was turned away from him, and seemed engaged in conversation with the manager's daughter, his arm kept brushing against Peter's. It could have been an accident, except that it kept happening. Just this friendly, steady kind of touch against his arm, a kind of wordless support.

It probably shouldn't have helped so much. But it did.

* * *

When they got back to the Pad, and piled out of the car, Neil was waiting, leaning up against the front of the Pad, arms crossed, staring down at the ground.

He started at the sound of the Monkeemobile doors closing, and Peter guessed he'd been half-asleep on his feet.

"Hey," he said, pushing away from the wall as Peter came closer. "You're back."

Mike yawned ostentatiously. "Well – it's been a long day, and I'm pretty beat."

"Yeah. Night, Mike," Micky said vaguely, waving him off as he tilted his head at Peter and Neil.

Mike sighed, and grabbed one of Micky's arms, while Davy grabbed the other, and they quickly hustled past Peter and into the Pad.

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked.

Neil didn't answer. "How was the gig?" he asked eventually.

"It was good," Peter said. "They really liked us." He took a step closer. "Is everything okay? I thought - we thought - you were coming. Did something happen?"

"Yeah," Neil said. "Something just – came up." He didn't explain any further, just looked at Peter. "I'm really sorry."

Peter reached out to him. "Is that why you were waiting here?" He smiled. "You didn't have to do that."

The set of Neil's shoulders seemed a little less stiff, though he pulled his hands out of Peter's grip, so he knew Neil was still upset.

"It's okay, really," he assured him. "You can come to the next gig. We're playing there next week again."

"Next week," Neil repeated. Then, as he looked at Peter, he nodded. "Okay."

* * *

"It's okay," Peter said, as Davy scanned the crowd, a frown on his face. "I guess…something must have come up again."

He smiled, but there was still a faint crease between Davy's eyebrows. "We could probably wait for a couple more minutes," he said, glancing over at Mike, who looked down and fiddled with one of his guitar strings as he nodded. "Sure. We can wait a little longer."

But Peter shook his head. "It's okay. Really."

This time, they didn't hang around after the show, though the manager tried to coax Davy into staying. They just loaded up their instruments and got into the Monkeemobile, and headed home.

In the front seat, Micky threw out possible excuses – "- accidentally locked in a lion cage," " – nocturnal dentist?" " – soda can fell on his foot," – that really weren't all that reassuring if you thought about them.

Peter stared out the window, and tried to wrestle his let-down feeling into something more reasonable. Because, well, _of course _there was an explanation, and it was bound to be a good one. So feeling bad about something he knew that Neil couldn't help – well, that was kind of a betrayal, wasn't it? Because if Neil knew how disappointed he was, that would only make him feel even worse.

"Hey," Davy said in a low voice. When Peter turned, he studied him for a moment. "You were really good tonight, you know that?"

He managed a smile. "Thanks."

It was kind of exhausting trying to be rational and logical. He slumped down on the seat. His eyes were heavy and his head kept falling to the side, onto Davy's shoulder.

"Sorry," he said, jerking upright the first time it happened. And the second.

"S'alright," Davy said, both times, like it really was, like he really didn't mind – so the third time it happened, and he woke to find his head on Davy's shoulder again, he didn't move right away – instead he kept his eyes closed, and stayed where he was.

Davy's shoulder was a shoulder and not a pillow, and leaning his head at that angle hurt his neck, so it wasn't really comfortable…but it _was_ comfort_ing_.

Davy must've been tired too, because a couple of minutes later, his head came to rest against Peter's.

* * *

Neil didn't show up at the Pad that night, but the next day he showed up pale and contrite and so full of apology he could barely choke out the words.

"It's okay," Peter said again, because it was. It had to be, because if Neil felt this bad about something that was okay, he didn't want to think about how bad he'd feel about something that wasn't.

"It's just – sometimes, things come up. You know?"

"Yeah," Peter said, because Neil was staring at him, like he was willing him to understand. "Of course."

The problem was, he _didn't _know. Because even though Peter had an ingrained habit of taking things at face-value, that was a little harder to do when those amorphous things didn't _have_ a face.

So he ventured, "Just what kind of th" –

"You know – you could play for me here," Neil said, interrupting him. "Some day. I'd like that."

* * *

The third time he mentioned _The Sasquatch _and their next gig, Neil didn't say anything at all, and Peter didn't press it, because that way, it was possible to believe that Neil might not have heard him.

It wasn't a surprise then, to not see him the next time they played.

Things come up, Peter told himself, staring out the window of the Monkeemobile, Davy's arm warm and reassuring against his side again. Against the back of his hand, Davy's fingers twitched, and Peter had the sudden, overwhelming desire to move his hand, to wrap his fingers around Davy's. To just - hold his hand - even if it was just for a minute.

But he made himself think about Eddie Carey, and about Neil, and he made his hand stay exactly where it was, lying on the seat of the car, empty.

And later that week, when they were alone in the Pad, he did play for Neil, who sat on the couch, and smiled at him, head attentively cocked, hands clasped in his lap.

And almost before the last chords had died away, Neil said, almost fiercely, "There – see? I told you it would be just as good."


	14. Chapter 14

Notes: Huzzah! One more chapter to go! :)

* * *

Really, it was only one wrong note. A tone that was just a half-pitch off what it needed to be. It didn't bring the entire melody to a halt or anything – at most, it just threw a slight hitch in there, every time it happened.

But…Peter played bass. Harmony was his _job, _and that meant that it was up to him to smooth out that jarring catch that tripped them up every so often. Neil didn't know a lot about music, and he'd never been part of this particular kind of duet before, so…it was up to Peter to make it as easy as possible for him.

The thing was…making it easy was a lot harder than it sounded.

Which didn't mean that it was _bad_, because it wasn't. Most of the time it was good. Once, for no reason at all, Neil bought him a set of guitar strings. Another time he heroically forced down a few spoonfuls of Peter's universally panned Mustard Delight (Micky'd done experiments, and it turned out that even a small serving induced homicidal rage in houseplants). But mostly…mostly, he just sat across from Peter and listened to him, and sometimes he got this soft look in his eyes that made Peter feel like – like this thing with Neil could have been so much simpler. If he hadn't known Davy first.

But he'd loved Davy long before he'd ever met Neil, and that meant that those looks Neil slanted in his direction didn't have the power he thought they might have had, if the situation had been different.

That didn't mean those looks meant _nothing_ – just that the pure, clean happiness they ought to have given him was blunted somewhat by the complicated circumstances.

But then – _love_ was complicated. What he felt for Mike, and Micky, and Davy was love, no doubt about that – but in each case, it was as individual and different as the people themselves. And that was how it was with Neil too. Maybe what he felt toward him wasn't love _yet_, or maybe it was just a new form of love he hadn't encountered before…but he figured the important thing was not to get hung up on it, to just – go with the feeling, and let it breathe.

And most of the time, Peter could do that. After Neil's third no-show at _The Sasquatch, _Peter stopped asking, and they just hung out at the Pad whenever he came over...and that certainly helped.

Still, it didn't eradicate that awkward, off-pitch note completely. It just kept sliding in every so often and throwing off an otherwise regular rhythm, in spite of Peter's best efforts.

* * *

The conversation had worn down, and they were sitting on the couch. And then Neil drew Peter's feet into his lap, with one of those smiles that made Peter feel that sweet twist of _almost_ _rightness, _when there was a sudden explosion of giggles and a girl in a bright blue bikini came racing down the stairs, followed by Micky, who leapt and growled theatrically, groping hands extended into claws.

Neil immediately pushed Peter's feet out of his lap, and the girl came to a sudden stop as she registered their presence. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, she cast an assessing eye over them. Peter felt very conscious of the lack of space between their bodies, mostly because Neil instantly tried to edge away. She turned back to Micky and said, "Aren't you going to introduce me, Wolfman?"

Micky straightened up. "Oh, yeah. This is Peter. I've told you about Pete. Pete, this is Yolanda. And that's Neil" –

"I'm Peter's friend," Neil interrupted, voice too loud.

Yolanda blinked. "Well, I can see that," she said drolly, sharp eyes flicking between them. Neil moved over another couple of inches. "It's nice to finally meet you both. Micky's told me a lot about you."

"It's nice to meet you too," Peter said.

Yolanda stayed standing there, bare feet planted solidly on the floor, and it made Peter nervous, because Neil had already turned his face away, and he was staring over to his right, completely ignoring her continued presence. She blinked, eyebrows rising, and Peter smiled a little at her and shrugged.

Micky rescued the situation by pouncing and grabbing her around the waist. "Aha! Ayooo!" he threw his head back and howled in triumph at the ceiling.

She shrieked and slapped at his arms. "Stop it! Anyway, I thought the Big Bad Wolf only came after Little Red Riding Hood!"

"Sometimes I make exceptions," he told her.

"Well, you picked the wrong girl this time," she said, baring her teeth at him, "Because I _bite_."

"Nah – that shows I picked exactly the _right_ girl," he disagreed, waggling his eyebrows.

She ducked away and ran for the door, hotly pursued by Micky. Neil didn't react until the Pad door slammed shut behind them, and even when he turned back, he didn't meet Peter's eyes, just frowned at the floor.

"She seemed nice," Peter said finally, to break the silence.

"Yeah," Neil said, but he still didn't look up. He studied his hands for a couple of seconds before saying, "I didn't know she was here."

It sounded a little accusing, and it wasn't helped by the fact that he immediately followed it up with, "Did _you_?"

"I figured there was someone up there, but not who," Peter said, because when he'd made his way back from the beach ball tournament, he'd heard voices upstairs, but since one of them was clearly Micky's, he hadn't exactly felt like he needed to investigate.

"Hey – it's okay," Neil said, and he did look at him then. "I'm not saying anything. Just – it would've been nice to know. You get what I mean?"

Peter looked back at him. Neil's expression was very serious, and he couldn't help but juxtapose it with the smile he'd had on his face a few minutes ago, sweeping Peter's feet into his lap. Now he looked like he might never smile again, mouth set in a straight line, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Peter.

"Yeah," Peter said eventually. "I get it."

* * *

The problem with _this_ particular girl-shaped wrong note, was that once struck, it didn't recede gracefully into the background, the way previous wrong notes had – instead, it sounded over and over again.

Because ever since that first tentative kiss, the Pad had been a safe place. The guys had been careful to back off, to find other things to do whenever Neil came by. But now, that changed. Because suddenly, the Pad wasn't private territory anymore, with Yolanda popping in and out, resting her head on Micky's shoulder while they hammered out their set list for _The Sasquatch, _painting her nails at the kitchen table and dispensing advice to Davy on how to gently discourage Elsa (the manager's daughter), and sometimes even depositing her two little sisters on the couch if she happened to be on babysitting duty.

To be perfectly honest it was – really nice. Because now it didn't matter whether Mike and Davy left, since Yolanda and Micky were still hanging around the Pad, and Neil and Peter couldn't be alone anyway…Mike and Davy usually ended up staying. Even with a whole new person thrown into the mix, it felt like old times. Not that they'd stopped hanging around together or anything, but…well, lately, Peter'd found himself spending a lot of time alone in the Pad, either waiting for Neil, or waiting for the other guys to come back.

So this was a nice change. And Peter would've been wholeheartedly happy about it, except that Neil so clearly wasn't. He still showed up at the Pad, but now he looked guarded, wary, like he was in danger of being heckled or called out on something. Peter didn't like that. But – there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it – since the others had just as much right to use the Pad as he did.

And really, it wasn't like the Pad was the only place he and Neil could go.

Except, of course, that it was.

* * *

This time, when Neil finally shuffled in the door, and everyone called out their hellos, Yolanda raised her head from Micky's shoulder and assessed him. "Finally," she said, dramatically throwing out a hand and smacking Peter in the chest. "You really like to keep this one waiting, huh?"

His eyes shot to Peter, who could only shake his head, because he didn't want Neil to think he'd said anything. He hadn't realized anyone had noticed the glances he'd been casting at the door.

Neil shrugged, and he didn't look at her as he awkwardly scraped out the words, "Well, you know…things…"

"Things!" Micky positively exploded with agreement.

"Things," Mike nodded, and turned to Davy, who spread his arms out in a gesture of resigned acceptance and repeated, "_Things_."

"You can't argue with '_things_,'" Micky told Yolanda, and certainly, Peter had found that that was the easiest course to take. Yolanda didn't look convinced.

Neil didn't move from his position just inside the door, and the silence stretched out as she studied him with curiosity. "You come late – and then you stand over there and you don't talk to him."

She giggled. "I don't get it."

Peter could feel his shoulders tightening at the sudden small movement of Neil's hands – like he was just stopping himself from reaching for the door handle. He tried to think of something to say.

"Well…" Mike began, but Davy interrupted, turning to Yolanda, "Y'know, my grandfather over in England, he's got this saying, how does it go again?" he thought for a second. "I've got it now - 'A good friend is someone you can talk to about anything…but a best friend is the kind of person that you don't need to talk to at all.' _His_ best friend is called William Stepney – he's known him since they were both just kids having conker fights. He still calls him every Christmas – they stay on the phone for hours…never say a word."

Yolanda laughed.

"I'm serious," Davy said, cheerful, charming, "True story that is. And I think he's right – a real friend, a best friend…well, you don't _need_ words, do you?"

He caught Peter's eye and smiled at him. Peter smiled back, touched.

"Well, in that case, you two must be really close," Yolanda said. Amusement bubbled through her tone as she got to her feet. "I have to go. Tell him about the party," she instructed Micky before bending down to kiss him. As Neil stood aside for her, she smiled right at him, wide and bright, but he avoided her eyes. She waved at Micky before disappearing.

When the door shut, there was a silence.

"Guess this just shows what good friends _we_ are," Micky said, after clearing his throat.

"Party?" Neil said suddenly, directing the question toward Peter.

He nodded. "Yolanda's having a birthday party. She invited us."

"Oh," Neil said. He shifted from one foot to the other. "Look – it's just" –

"No, man – you don't get it," Micky interrupted, "You're probably thinking it's not gonna be your scene, but – Yolanda's hip. It's going to be a great party – really laid back."

"My scene?" Neil asked.

"Yeah!" Micky's smile wavered as Neil stared at him. Quietly, he asked, "And what exactly _is '_my scene'?"

He held up both hands, palm out. "Hey – I'm not implying anything" –

"I think you are," Neil said. The words came out with velocity and force – like bullets.

"Hey man – cool it. _This_ – this really isn't a big deal," Mike said, eyes darting between Micky and Neil.

"Yeah – sometimes a party is just a party," Davy chimed in.

Neil ignored them both. "I don't have a '_scene_,'" he said. "You hear me?"

"Oh, loud and clear, man," Micky said, getting to his feet with a flourish. "I hear you loud and clear." He saluted, making a muscle in Neil's jaw twitch, before saying, "Now, if you'll excuse me, it turns out that I _do _have a scene – and it's as far away from here as I can get."

He strode past Neil and right out the door.

"Micky – Mick!" Mike called, before starting after him.

Davy was a little slower to follow. He looked at Peter for a second, before saying to Neil, very mildly, "It really is just a party, y'know. Might do some good if you went."

"I don't see how a party's gonna do me any good," Neil said flatly.

"Never said it'd be for _you,_" Davy said. Neil frowned and he shrugged. "You should think about it." He caught Peter's eye once more before he walked off after Mike and Micky.

Even when the door closed behind Davy, Neil didn't move. Peter waited for him to look at him, but he didn't, and the silence just built and grew until finally, Peter had to say something.

"Micky was just trying to be nice," he said. "You didn't have to be like that."

Neil laughed, a short, dry sound. "Oh yeah. Real nice. Scouting out parties to make sure they're 'my scene.' What's that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"I don't know – that you'd like it? Maybe that you don't need to worry, and that you can just have a good time?" Peter tried.

Neil shook his head slightly, in wordless disagreement.

"You can't – you can't worry _all_ the time," Peter said, as carefully as he could. "I mean – if we go to that party…what's going to happen? We could just be two people, two friends at a party. It doesn't have to be anything else."

"Yeah. Until your friend Micky decides to start shooting his mouth off," Neil said.

"That's not – he wouldn't do that," Peter said.

"No? Didn't stop him here – with his girlfriend."

"I don't think he told her."

"You ask him?"

Micky was his friend – one of his _best_ friends. "I don't need to," he said, and he believed every word.

Neil didn't. "Really? Because she sure seemed to know an awful lot."

"Maybe she's a good guesser," Peter suggested, because some people _were. _And maybe she'd seen something – a quick glimpse of his feet on Neil's lap before Neil'd pushed him away, and put it together with how close they'd been sitting, and figured it out. Or maybe she hadn't seen anything at all, and the things she'd said (and what _had _she said, really?) meant absolutely nothing. "Anyway…why does it matter so much? She's nice and" -

"So what – it's okay to tell people if they're _nice_? Peter – it doesn't _work _like that!"

It wasn't something he was going to shout from the rooftops, or announce to strangers in the street…but…he didn't see why it _couldn't_ work like that. But he didn't say that. Instead, he said, suddenly, "But we _could_ go. To the party."

He looked at Neil, who stood for a second, as if he didn't know whether to pursue his point or let it drop. Finally, he sat down on the couch next to Peter and said, "You know, if you want to go to that party – then go."

"But I want to go with _you_," he said. Neil looked away from him, down at his hands. "It doesn't have to be," Peter searched in vain for the right word, " – _hard_. Just – friends."

Neil focused on his fingers, which he flexed, then relaxed, then flexed again. Finally, he said, "Listen – I know I haven't been – here – so much lately, and I'm sorry. I am, really. Just, there are some things… But I promise, I'm trying to fix it. I'm going to fix it – okay?"

This didn't seem to Peter to have anything to do with the party.

"Okay?" Neil asked.

But…even if it wasn't exactly relevant to the problem at hand, he sounded very serious and heartfelt, and for the first time in a week, he reached out and took Peter's hand.

"Okay," Peter said, in the same, soft tone, "But" –

Neil didn't let go of his hand, but he repeated, words heavy with finality, "If you want to go to the party – you should go."

* * *

When the others came back, Micky said, "Guess I'm going to be telling Yolanda she doesn't have to set that extra place by the pool?"

"Sorry," Peter said.

"Hey – wouldja look at that? I was right." Micky pantomimed amazement, before dropping the act and saying, "You know, Yolanda was hoping we might play a couple of songs at the party…but I'm guessing that's not going to happen either."

"That's pretty good, Mick, but before you get a job doing horoscopes, maybe you and Davy could see if there's anything that could pass for edible in the kitchen," Mike said.

"I see…I see – salami in cream cheese, canned black olives…and banana pudding," Micky said, putting a hand to his forehead like he was receiving a vision.

"You do?" Davy asked skeptically.

"Well, I never said I saw them in _our _cupboards."

"All right," he said, "Tell me what the future holds for me, then."

"Disappointment, suffering and a lifetime of not being able to put things on the top shelf. But that's not a prediction – that's just a good guess," Micky told him as Davy pulled him into the kitchen by the arm.

Mike took a deep breath. "So…Neil's not going to the party." He didn't sound surprised. "You know, Pete, there are some people you just can't help, because they don't want to help themselves, you dig?"

Peter considered it. "I don't think Micky's that bad."

"I'm not talking about Micky," Mike said, in that same careful tone. "Listen – from what I've seen of him, Neil's an all right guy. But this thing you've got with him – it's going nowhere, and you gotta know that, Pete."

"I know we're not going anywhere," Peter said slowly, "That's why we stay in all the time."

"I don't mean it like that," Mike said, "Look, I know it's not easy, and you gotta be careful and whatnot, but – what the two of you are doing…that's not dating. It's hiding out. And that ain't fair – not to either of you."

It was strange – Mike's words seemed to twist a little inside Peter's head, echoing back in Eddie Carey's voice. _Not all of us are looking for a hideaway._

"You're right," he realized.

Mike's shoulders relaxed a little…but a moment later he sighed and said, "All right – now you tell me what you're thinking because I've got a feeling that that was just way too easy."

"We're not dating – Neil and me. So we really need to start."

Mike rubbed at his eyes with his hand. "Yeah. That's – that's about what I oughta have expected."

* * *

That night, he watched Davy get ready for bed. It was a habit – he'd always done it. Except – ever since that night Davy'd brought Eddie Carey back to the Pad...it had changed things a little, shifted them off balance.

Before, he'd watched Davy with – with Teflon eyes. They looked, but they didn't linger. Non-stick. Respectful, he guessed. Because Davy's body didn't belong to him – it belonged to Davy, and the girls he chose to share it with.

Just – ever since Davy'd changed his usual approach, and lain down on the couch with Eddie Carey…Peter couldn't stop looking at Davy like – like his body was something Peter could _have. _

Which was stupid, he knew, since just because Davy'd wanted one guy, Eddie Carey, didn't necessarily mean he'd want Peter. Or even any other guy. Maybe Eddie Carey had been a once-off. Davy certainly hadn't gone out of his way to try and find him again, and he'd never brought any other guy around to the Pad either.

But it didn't matter – because now, as Davy unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, Peter's eyes drank him in, and his imagination sent crazy pictures flashing through his mind – Davy in bed with a girl, Davy lying on the couch with Eddie Carey, Davy wrapped around _Peter._

He guessed this was how habits turned _bad._

He swallowed, and tried valiantly to move his mind onto safer topics. "Date!" he said.

In the middle of buttoning up his pajama top, Davy paused. "What?"

"What's the most romantic date you can think of?" Davy's hands remained motionless, and Peter clarified, "If you really wanted to impress a – a girl," he stumbled over the word, though he didn't know why. Davy'd dated lots of girls, after all. "What would you do?"

Slowly, Davy fastened his last two buttons. "Something romantic?" he said. Peter nodded. "I dunno – maybe…maybe a walk on the beach. Or – a picnic. And afterwards, we lie on the blanket and look up at the stars, and talk." He paused, and looked at Peter, and the corners of his mouth turned up a little. "Or maybe we don't talk."

Davy's smile caused a warm, liquid kind of sensation to slide from his chest to his stomach. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn't as if Davy was talking about him. About _them. _

"Why d'you ask?"

"It's for Neil. I'm trying to plan the perfect date for him," Peter explained.

Davy's expression didn't change, but there was a split second before he nodded, once. "You might have to reconsider the walk on the beach then," he said. "And the picnic. And looking up at the stars is probably out too."

He didn't say it in a mean way, but it still made Peter feel a little awkward. Maybe because it was true. "It's okay. I can improvise," he said.

"Pete," Davy said. His voice was very soft, and Peter found himself craning forward, straining to hear whatever he might say next. But after a moment, his smile snapped back to normal and he said, "That's – really nice. Neil's lucky to have you, you know."

* * *

Micky recycled his psychic bit when he tried to talk to him. "Let me guess," he said, placing one palm on his forehead and the other at arms length, almost touching Peter's chest, like he was picking up his thoughts. "'No' to the party, and 'Yes,' to hanging around and waiting for Neil to show up."

"I want to go on a date with him," Peter explained.

"Yeah, well, I want to go on a date with Ursula Andress," Micky said. "And of the two of us, I'd say mine has a better shot of actually happening."

"I don't think Neil knows how to date a guy." He ignored the 'you're telling me' face Micky made. "But if I could just – show him, then maybe…"

Micky looked at him, and sighed. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"

* * *

"A date?" Neil said, and almost immediately afterwards, "Listen, I _said_ about the party – you can go if you want, I just" –

Peter shook his head. "I don't want to go to the party. I want to go on a date. With you."

"A date," Neil said again. "Pete – I don't think" –

"Here," Peter said quickly. "It can be here. Mike and Peter and Davy'll be at the party, so it'll just be you and Micky!" He stopped for a second and revised, "I mean – Mike and Micky and Davy'll be at the party, so it'll just be you and me!"

"Just you and me?" Neil thought about it. "Okay."

Peter couldn't help it – he had to make sure. "You'll be there?"

"Yeah," Neil said. "I'll be there. I promise."

* * *

The picnic basket was packed. The blanket was ready and laid out on the floor. The stars were present and accounted for. There was only one element missing from this date…but unfortunately, it was a pretty crucial one.

"Man – that is _it_," Mike exploded. "Pete – get ready. You're coming to that party with us."

"He said he'd be here," Peter said. "Maybe he's just…running late."

"You really believe that?" Mike asked.

Peter had to. Because Neil had promised – and if even a secret date in an otherwise empty house was too hard for him, then they had a problem that Peter didn't think he could fix.

He _had_ to believe Neil was going to show up.

"All right," Mike said. "Then we'll stay."

"But – the party," Peter said, and Micky echoed, "Yeah – what about the party, Mike?"

"We're not leaving you here alone," Mike said firmly. "Not this time."

"That's great, Mike, really," Micky said. "But – Yolanda's kind of expecting me. And I think I'd prefer it if she didn't have a reason to slam the door in my face tomorrow."

"You two go," Davy said suddenly. "And I'll stay here with Pete."

"Are you sure?" Mike asked, even as Micky zoomed over to the Pad door and stood there, practically vibrating.

"You really don't have to," Peter told him. "I'm sure Neil will be here soon."

"Well when he shows up, then I can head over to the party," Davy said. "Sound okay to you?"

"Sounds like a pretty good plan to _me_," Mike said – and Peter found he couldn't argue, and he didn't even really want to, anyway.

* * *

They sat on the blanket in the middle of the Pad, and waited.

"Thanks," Peter said. "For waiting."

"Anytime," Davy said. "Don't worry about it. I'll probably be heading over to the party in no time."

Peter wanted to believe it. "Yeah."

A little while later and he felt compelled to open the picnic basket.

"You sure?" Davy asked.

"It's mostly just space food sticks and cinnamon flavor toothpicks, anyway."

Slowly, they made their way through the supply of packaged energy snacks, and just as slowly, they stopped waiting. Which Peter only really realized when Davy turned to him and said, "I'm sorry, Pete."

With a pang, he realized that somewhere between the first chocolate space stick, and the last peanut-butter flavored one, he'd stopped expecting Neil to show up.

"It's okay," he said. "Something must have come up."

"It's not okay," Davy said. He sounded annoyed as he swept his hand wide and said, "I mean, look at this. You've got the picnic and the blanket - all you're missing are the stars and the person you want to share it with, and that's" –

"I have the stars," Peter interrupted, and pointed upwards. Davy tilted his head back, and frowned, suddenly side-tracked. "Why is there a photograph of Lassie on the ceiling?"

"Well, that's the Dog Star," Peter explained.

Davy stared at him for a moment before he laughed, surprised and warm.

"Micky helped me do it," Peter said. He couldn't help but smile – and the atmosphere inside the Pad seemed to lighten as Davy grinned back.

"All right," he said, and he laid back on the blanket. He pulled on Peter's elbow until he got the hint and stretched out beside him. "Come on then, tell me about the others." His hand found Peter's and he laced their fingers together. "What's Rin Tin Tin doing next to Lassie?"

"Um, well," Peter said, momentarily thrown by the warmth of Davy's palm against his. "Um – if Lassie's the Dog Star, Canis Major, then Rin Tin Tin's" –

"Canis Minor," Davy finished and laughed again. "All right." He used his left hand to point to another spot on the ceiling, leaving his right hand still clasped in Peter's. "Over there. Marilyn Monroe, Angie Dickinson and the Rat Pack – what about them?"

"The Big Dipper," Peter said.

"And The Beatles?"

Peter frowned, then decided, "Gemini."

They stayed like that, lying on the blanket and staring up at the pictures Micky had helped him stick to the ceiling that morning, and Davy kept holding his hand. After a while, when they lapsed into silence, he started absently moving his thumb back and forth across Peter's palm. Peter wondered if he even realized he was doing it.

He could have said something – or pulled his hand away…but he didn't. Because he'd given up the kiss, breathed out the memory and let it go, and he'd tried to stop hoarding the little things that Davy did, like some kind of memory-miser…but if he could hold on to just _one_ thing, _one_ moment…

…it would be this one. Him and Davy, lying side-by-side, hands joined, breathing in and out in rhythm. He didn't just want to keep this moment – he wanted to stretch it out for as long as he could. He wanted to _live_ in it.

He turned his head to the side, and Davy did the same, so they were looking at each other, faces inches apart. It was very quiet in the Pad, and it seemed to him, that he'd never felt closer to Davy. Like he could ask him anything. Like - did Davy know what the slow sweep of his thumb against Peter's palm was doing to Peter's insides? And - did Davy want to date boys now, as well as girls?

Or, what he wanted to know most of all - exactly what had happened that night with Eddie Carey?

And without quite meaning to, he found himself saying, "Did you feel like this when you found out about me? When you found out how I felt about you?" Peter clarified.

"Like what?" Davy asked.

He thought about Neil and the feeling of responsibility, heavy on his shoulders. "Worried," he said finally. "And like you had to make me happy."

There was another pause, though Davy didn't look away, kept his eyes fixed on Peter's. "Maybe at first," he said. "I mean – it felt like such a big thing, you know? It was like – just by feeling the way you did about me…I was involved. Like – it was my fault, somehow, and it was up to me to fix it. Only – I didn't know how, or if I could, or whether I – could make it good. So…yeah. I worried."

"I'm sorry," Peter said. Because he hadn't known before, but now…now he did.

"Don't be," Davy said, and his hand squeezed Peter's. "Because after a little while, I figured some things out. Love's – love's the biggest gift someone can give you. I mean – knowing that someone looks at you, and they see something special, that's…bigger than any worry. And it changes things. You don't look at things the same way. You don't look at _people _the same way, and it…" The thoughtful note in Davy's voice solidified into something firmer, more definite. "I think it's worth waiting for."

His eyes were very intent and he asked Peter, "Is _this_ - worth waiting for?"

All Peter could do was look at him, because he wasn't quite sure what Davy meant. Neil. Probably Neil, because what else would he mean?

But even if he _did_ mean Neil, Peter didn't know how to answer it. So he turned his head and stared up at Natalie Wood's knowing smile and waited for Davy to move away.

But instead, he said, "Sorry," and he left his hand in Peter's, and they stayed exactly as they were. Eventually, Peter closed his eyes and let himself drift, half-awake and half-not, so when he opened his eyes to see Neil standing over him, at first, it seemed like a dream.

"Neil," he said, blinking. "You came."

"…eventually," Davy muttered, as he sat up.

"I told you I would," he said. He didn't look happy. "But maybe you'd prefer it if I left."

Peter frowned as he scrambled into a sitting position. He tried to catch Neil's eyes, but they were firmly focused on the blanket – looking down at his fingers, which were still tangled with Davy's.

He pulled his hand away, and said, "We were waiting for you."

Neil looked away. "Yeah. Looks like it."

"I was just keeping Pete company," Davy said.

Neil's jaw worked, but he ignored him. "I thought it was just us tonight. That's what you said."

"Maybe it would've been – if you'd shown up when you were supposed to," Davy said, rashly.

"I was talking to _Peter_," Neil said.

"Oh. Well, if you're talking to Pete, maybe you should apologize," Davy said. "Because you told him you'd be here" –

"And I am!" Neil said. "I got here as soon as I could."

"Doesn't sound much like 'sorry' to me."

Neil's fists clenched. "What – are you going to _make _me apologize?"

Davy kept his chin up as he stared at Neil. "I shouldn't have to."

Peter put a hand on Davy's elbow. He could feel Neil's eyes focus on his fingers like lit matches. "You said you wanted to go to the party, after," he said.

He looked at Davy. Davy looked back at him. He smiled, an odd kind of smile. "Guess it was worth waiting for after all, huh?" he said, and got to his feet.

Neil didn't move after he left, and Peter levered himself into a standing position. He felt very tired.

"I didn't think you were coming," he said again, and Neil laughed, a short, hard sound. "But…I'm glad you did. Here – sit down," he gestured toward the blanket.

"No thanks. I don't want a secondhand date."

_I did this for you, _Peter wanted to say. Instead he said, "Davy was just being nice. He just wanted to make sure" –

"I came," Neil finished. "I told _you _I'd be here. Didn't you believe me?"

"I did," Peter said. It was very hard to find the right words looking at the hurt, hard expression on Neil's face. "I just thought…maybe – something came up."

Neil took a deep, fast breath through his nose. "So what – just because I was late you thought you'd tap Jones to go on this date instead?"

"Davy was only keeping me company. He was just being nice," Peter said again.

"I'll bet," Neil said. He regarded Peter for a long, uncomfortable moment before asking, "Did he try anything with you?"

"What?" Neil's words were so unexpected it felt like they'd tilted the floor underneath his feet. "No."

"Really? Not ever? He kissed you before, remember? And he knows you were into him." Peter shook his head, but Neil persisted, "And you're right _there_ – sleeping in the next bed. I haven't seen any of those girls of his around lately either. Just seems like, all things considered, you might be an easy mark for him."

Peter stared at him. "Davy wouldn't do that."

Neil didn't say anything.

"He _wouldn't_," Peter insisted. "And _I_ wouldn't either."

He could hear Neil breath in, and then out. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

He relaxed a little.

"So – I'm here. What do we do now?"

"I don't know," Peter said.

"We could always go in the bedroom." He threw the sentence out like a challenge.

Peter looked at him.

"Why not?" he asked. "I mean – your friends are at that party, Jones is gone. It's just you and me. Why can't we go to your bedroom?"

It felt like he was under attack – like Neil was suggesting it specifically to hurt him – or Davy. Because it wasn't just a bedroom, it was a shared space, his and Davy's shared space, and if he invited Neil in there…it wouldn't be any more.

"Why can't we go to your bedroom?" Neil asked again. Every word came out strong and certain, like he already knew the answer.

"Why can't we go to yours?" He didn't plan it – the words just burst out of him, and Neil actually took a step back, like Peter had scored some kind of hit. He didn't look so certain anymore.

There was a pause.

"Okay," he said. "The couch, then."

"The couch?" Peter repeated.

Neil swallowed, but said, "It's just us, right? And if we're…what we are…then this is where this thing is eventually going, right? So _why not_?"

He looked at Neil's hands, fingers clenching and unclenching repeatedly. He stared at his face, still wearing that hard expression like a mask. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

"Because…I don't think you want to do this," Peter said, softly.

"Except I'm here, telling you that I _do_ want to. And if you're my – _whatever_ – then you should want this too. But from where I'm standing, it looks like _you're_ the one who doesn't want to. So. What's it going to be?"

He stared at Neil for a long moment before saying, "Okay," and moving to sit on the couch. A moment later, Neil sat down beside him.

"So – what"- he began.

"Clothes," Neil said, jerkily. "Clothes off."

He started to unbutton his shirt with cold, clumsy fingers, but stopped when he realized that Neil wasn't moving. "Aren't you going to" –

"Just you," he said. The words jumped out quick and fierce. He looked at Neil who just jerked his chin upwards, and said, "You gonna do this for me, or not?"

Slowly, he finished unbuttoning his shirt, but as he began to shrug it off his shoulders, Neil said, "Stop."

He did.

Neil shook his head, then buried it in his hands. "I don't – I'm sorry…I don't need that."

Peter dropped onto his knees in front of Neil, but he avoided his eyes. "What do you need?" he asked.

All of a sudden there was a hand touching his hair, and pulling him close until their foreheads were touching. "I'm sorry," Neil said. "I'm so – I'm so sorry. I am. But I'm trying, I really am – and you don't know. You don't know what it's like_. _You _don't._"

"You could tell me. Then I'd know," Peter said, but Neil just heaved out a shuddering breath. Peter reached out, and rested his hand against Neil's cheek. "What do you need?" he asked again.

"I need" – Neil said, only to stop. He tried again. "I need – you to believe me. When I say that I'm trying to fix this. I need you to trust me." He looked straight into Peter's eyes. "Can you do that? Please?"

Peter looked back at him. He shouldn't have hesitated – but Davy's words rang in his head, as clearly as if Davy was speaking into his ear. _Is this worth waiting for?_

Honestly, he wasn't sure if it was. But the one thing he _did_ still know for certain was that love was a responsibility, and it was his job to make this as easy as he could for Neil...

...so the right answer to the question he'd just been asked was the one that made somebody else happy.

"Yes," he made himself say. "I can do that."


	15. Chapter 15a

Notes: So...I really, really suck at estimating story length. As a face-saving exercise, I'm just going to think of this as one long chapter, split into two parts.

* * *

It was the look on Neil's face – hopeful and desperate at the same time. He'd _had_ to promise, because it was so clear that Neil _needed _him to. He didn't think anyone had ever looked at him with that kind of helpless urgency, like he was the only person in the world that mattered.

Like he was the only person in the world who could fix things.

Of course, it tended to put him in mind of Micky's less than flattering assessment during the standoff with the board-game counterfeiters – "Man, if Pete's our only hope, then maybe we oughta just give up now. It'll save time."

But all he had to do _here_ to fix things was believe in Neil – and it was easy for Peter to believe in people. "Too easy," Mike had said darkly, on more than one occasion – along with other things like, "The ball and chain didn't tip you off that that guy might not be entirely trustworthy? Not even a little?" and "…so you gave him _all _our money…just because he asked?" (though in Peter's defence, the guy _had_ said "Please," and thanked him very nicely afterwards).

So when Neil didn't show up the next day, Peter just closed his eyes, and remembered his face – determined and tired…and he concentrated on believing in Neil, trusting him. He didn't waver even when Mike clicked his tongue and said, "_Again?"_ and Micky added, in a deep, sonorous tone, "Monkees and gentlemen – the Amazing Disappearing Man!"

Davy didn't say anything at all, but funnily enough, it was the look on his face – unhappy, concerned – that ultimately gave Peter's faith a bad case of the shakes. But he forced his doubts down, and clung to his responsibility like a rope to keep him upright. To keep him upright and honest and believing in Neil.

The day after _that_, as time ticked by and there was still no sign of Neil, the solution came to him. Sure, he could stay in the Pad, believing in Neil quietly and privately…but trust was also something that he could go out and _demonstrate. _And how better to _prove _to Neil that he had complete faith in him?

Luckily, even though Mike and Micky had been roped (literally – via knitting wool lasso) into dealing with what Miss Quick called "– a sudden bird emergency," Davy remained in the Pad, chin resting on his hand, looking at Peter with that same troubled expression that kept nibbling away at Peter's conviction.

Said troubled expression didn't change when Peter explained that he wanted to go to Neil's house. As a matter of fact, it seemed to deepen.

"I think he's sick," Peter said. "And that's why he's not here."

"He could be, I suppose," Davy agreed, drawing out the words, as if he didn't particularly want to say them.

"Good. So you'll show me where he lives?"

Davy looked at him for a long moment. "No," he said.

Peter blinked. "What? Why not?"

"Because I think it's a bad idea. And I don't want to see you get hurt." His voice was very kind.

It took Peter a minute to find the right words to explain. "Neil asked me to trust him. He asked me to believe that he's doing his best. And that means – that means that he wouldn't just disappear for no reason. And _that_ means he must be sick or something. He's probably at home right now, worried because he can't be here. And that means I should go to him, and tell him that it's okay, that I understand."

Davy took this in. Finally, he said, "You really believe him?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "I do."

"Well…I don't. I'm sorry."

Peter nodded. "That's okay. You don't have to believe Neil." He looked at Davy, and asked, "But – can you believe _me_?"

He waited.

Davy sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the troubled expression was replaced by a kind of unhappy resolution. "All right," he said. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Due to what had happened the last time Neil and Davy had met, as well as any residual bad feeling Mr and Mrs Henderson might still have vis a vis daughters and the dating of same by short maraca players, Peter thought it best for Davy to wait at the end of the driveway, while he rang the bell.

It was answered by a formidable-looking man in a sweater-vest – Neil's father, Peter guessed. His dark hair was liberally salted with grey, and his shoulders filled the doorframe – Peter could see the family resemblance, except that where Neil had a tendency to hunch forward, making himself (slightly) smaller, his father held himself rigidly upright, emphasizing his height and breadth.

He took Peter in from long-haired head to moccasined feet with unimpressed eyes. "Whatever you're selling, you've come to the wrong house," he said. "We're not interested."

"Oh, but you don't understand" – Peter began.

Mr Henderson held up a meaty hand. "_No,_" he said. "I've already told you, I have no interest in any of the woolly-headed, fuzzy-hearted countercultural nonsense you've come here to preach. Now please leave before I take it into my head to set my dog on you."

Safe in the knowledge that Sparky was currently receiving a belly rub from Davy, tongue lolling in a manner that suggested that she would not be easily incited to violence, Peter felt safe enough to say, "I'll leave in just a minute, I promise."

Mr Henderson squinted at him. "If I gave you some money – could you guarantee me that you'd spend it on a flea-bath and some sensible shoes?"

"I don't want your money," Peter told him.

"Well, you're not getting my peace, love or understanding," Mr Henderson said grimly, "So you'll have to be content with my hard-earned cash."

"Is Neil in?" Peter asked.

"Neil? You want to talk to Neil?"

"Only if he's well enough," Peter said. "When he didn't show up today, I knew something was wrong, so I thought I'd come by and see how he was."

Mr Henderson frowned at him, eyes raking over him again, more carefully. Peter shifted from foot to foot and waited.

"I'll get him," Mr Henderson said, finally.

"Thank you!" Peter called, though Mr Henderson seemed too busy shutting the door in his face to notice.

It opened a minute later to show Neil on the other side.

"Hi," Peter said, and smiled.

Neil stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Well – you didn't come to the Pad today, or yesterday – and you wouldn't do that for no reason, so I knew something must be wrong. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," Neil said. He paused. "We're having a family game night."

"Oh."

Neil took a step outside. "You have to go."

"What's wrong?" he asked, because Neil was gazing at him with a kind of frozen look on his face, and his words were coming out in an abrupt, stilted way that made Peter's heart jump in his chest with sympathetic dread.

Neil shook his head, a sudden, forceful movement. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said.

"Neil? Are you ready?" A girl appeared in the doorway. She was short, and red-haired. Pretty, Peter noted absently. She wore a dark pink minidress, and she had a lighter pink band in her hair. "It's our turn, and I don't know how I'm supposed to mime _Romeo and Juliet _without you."

"Just – give me a minute," Neil said, without turning around to her.

"Hi," she said to Peter.

"Hi," he said back.

"I'm Beryl."

Neil's eyes met his for the barest lightning-flash second before he looked away.

Peter swallowed. "Peter."

"He just wants…I just have to get some notes for him, okay?" Neil said, stepping back. He paused. "I'll be back in a second." It sounded like a strange cross between a promise and a warning. He pushed past Beryl, who ignored him in favor of assessing Peter with curious brown eyes.

"So," she said. "You're in college too?"

There was something pressing on Peter's chest, making it hard to breathe. It was hard to smile as well, though he tried. She didn't return it. "I guess so," he managed.

She tilted her head to the side. "I haven't seen you around campus." The barest hint of a question threaded through her words.

Before Peter could answer, Neil suddenly reappeared over her shoulder, and he must have heard her too, because as he moved past Beryl, he said, "Yeah, but does he really look like the type who comes to class and studies?" He laughed once, too hard.

He shoved a pile of papers at Peter, who reached out and took them automatically. Their hands didn't touch.

Beryl regarded Neil unblinkingly. "I don't know. You _are_ giving him your study notes, after all."

Neil shoved his hands into his pants. "Yeah, well, you're the one who's always telling me not to judge people on appearances, and that everyone deserves a chance." He looked up, eyes meeting Peter's. "I'll come by and pick those up tomorrow. Don't uh, don't mess them up."

It hurt to look at the pleading expression on Neil's face. He stared down at the papers in his hands instead. The writing looked like nonsense to him, like it wasn't real words at all. "I'll be careful," he said.

There was a slight pause.

"Good," Neil said. "Okay. I guess…um." He turned to Beryl and put an arm around her. "Come on."

As they walked back inside, she looked back over her shoulder at Peter. Neil didn't. The door shut.

Peter just stood there, staring at the closed door. He had a vague idea that he should leave – but he seemed to be having difficulty remembering how to walk. He supposed it would probably be all right…until the milkman came the next morning and the Hendersons had to open their front door again…

But just as he was resigning himself to life as a human scarecrow in Neil's front yard, there was a gentle touch on his arm.

"How did it go?" Davy asked.

Peter turned to him, but when he looked into Davy's concerned eyes, all he could manage was a shake of his head.

Luckily, Davy seemed to understand. "It's all right," he said. "Let's just – let's get you home, yeah?"

Peter nodded, and Sparky put her front paws on his legs and licked the back of his hand, and he suddenly had to press his lips together and blink very fast.

* * *

It turned out that he hadn't forgotten how to walk, though he didn't remember ever having to concentrate so hard on moving before. Still, that was kind of a good thing, because focusing on putting one foot in front of the other distracted him a little bit from what had just happened at Neil's house.

Davy was solid and silent at his side, walking too close and brushing against Peter with every step – like he was trying to reassure him with his presence. It _did_ help to alleviate the strange echoey ache inside him a little bit.

It wasn't until they were nearly home that Davy spoke again. "You all right?" he said, and his hand grasped Peter's wrist, fingers steady and warm against his skin.

And Peter found that distance had returned his power of speech. "I'm okay," he said. But he couldn't look at Davy as he said it. He stared down at Neil's notes "Just – I think I probably have to write a paper on _War and Peace, _so…I should really…get started on that."

He pulled free of Davy's grip, and walked into the Pad. He paused at the sight of Mike and Micky, standing in the middle of the floor and covered in brightly-colored feathers.

Davy appeared equally nonplussed upon his entrance. "What happened to you two?"

Mike and Micky exchanged glances and Micky ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a jaunty blue feather from behind his ear. "Let's just say that ceiling fans and panicking exotic birds don't mix."

"Where were you guys?" Mike asked, eyes very clear and keen.

"I'm kind of tired," Peter said suddenly. It was true. His body felt like it was made of lead. "I think I'm going to go to bed."

"Pete," Davy said as he walked past, but he didn't stop, just shook his head and hoped that Davy would understand.

"What happened?" he heard Mike ask, before he closed the bedroom door.

He set down the notes Neil had given him very carefully, because he'd promised, after all. And then, without even bothering to change, he pulled back the blankets and crawled into bed.

* * *

Of course, that wasn't the end of it.

Mike brought him some soup on a tray, and paced up and down, and told a long story about a no-good car that'd caused him no end of grief from the moment his cousin'd sold it to him, until Mike had finally had enough and abandoned it – bidding it adieu with a final kick to the rear bumper.

Peter thought the story might have been a metaphor for something, but he was too tired to figure out what.

Micky came in and enacted a short drama of his own devising, starring James Cagney, and Fred Astaire doing an impression of James Cagney. But Peter guessed he just wasn't in the mood, and both characters looked exactly like Micky, so he had trouble telling them apart.

Through it all, Davy just sat on the bed, hip against Peter's shoulder. He finally moved when Mike and Micky left, and Peter rolled onto his side, curling up and closing his eyes. He tried to let the familiar sounds of Davy getting ready for bed soothe him into sleep.

It didn't happen, and instead he found himself breathing in and out through a chest that felt like it had been laced up too tight.

He heard the light click off, and even though his eyes were already closed so it didn't really matter whether the light was on or not, he felt suddenly very alone.

Then the bed dipped, as Davy sat down again. "Pete?" he said. "You still awake?"

Peter took a breath, in and out, but didn't answer.

Davy seemed to know anyway. "Okay," he said. "I'm just going to talk then, all right?"

Peter waited, but instead of saying anything else, Davy moved around on the bed, pulling up his legs, and fitting his body behind Peter's. His right arm slipped around Peter's waist. His voice, when it came was low, and close. "Okay?" he asked, and when Peter didn't speak, he took it for the agreement that it was, and said, in that same almost-whisper, "This thing with you and Neil…the thing is – you deserve _better_, Pete. And I'm sorry."

Peter turned his head to the side a little, interrogative, and Davy said, "I know I told you you should do it, go out with him, but…I thought – the way he looked at you…I thought he'd make you happy."

His nose brushed against the back of Peter's neck, and his voice sent vibrations all the way down Peter's spine. "But – you're _not_ happy, Pete. And you deserve better. That's all I wanted to say," he said. He took a breath, then offered, hesitant, "I can go, if you want me to."

Davy's right hand, the one he'd slung over Peter, was resting against his stomach. Peter swallowed, then brought up his own hand to cover Davy's, holding him in place.

"Okay," Davy said, and he rubbed his nose against Peter's skin again, as he curled up even closer. "Okay."

His body was warm against Peter's back, and his arm was heavy over Peter's waist, and his breath came in a slow, steady rhythm that made something in Peter's chest gradually unclench.

And instead of thinking about everything that had happened a few hours before, he focused on the feel of Davy's chest rising and falling against his back – and in between tracking one breath and the next, Peter fell asleep.

* * *

The next day was a gloomy one, and not just for Peter, because when he finally hauled himself out of bed and into the kitchen, he found out they had received a phone call from the manager of _The Sasquatch _telling them their services were no longer required.

"He wants to hire this new band – The Brobdingnagians. Says he thinks they're the real deal," Mike said with a disconsolate shrug.

"The real deal? What do these Bro-Bru…what do these guys have that we don't?" Micky asked.

"Offhand, I'd say a frontman who's willing to date that guy's daughter. Remember last week, that guy who was all over her? Turns out he's their lead vocalist."

"That human stick insect?" Micky turned to Davy and smacked the back of his head, like he was a disobedient puppy. "Man, the _one_ time you won't put out."

"Hey!" Davy defended himself, "Elsa's a nice girl, but our values just didn't match up. She's got her head in the clouds, and I've got my feet on the ground…most of the time."

"Well, none of that changes the fact that we don't have a regular gig anymore," Mike noted.

"Funny how easy it is to get used to being employed," Micky mused. "I guess it's true – just about anything can become a habit."

"Maybe it's not so bad," Mike said, looking down at the piece of paper he'd scribbled a note on during the telephone call. "He did pass our names on to _Long John's Silvers, _said the manager there might be interested in hiring us."

"A pirate themed club?" Micky brightened, "We'll fit right in – Davy's already got the wooden legs!"

"We _could_ go down there and check it out," Mike said. "Ask the manager if he wouldn't mind setting up an audition later this week."

"Why don't we ask if we can audition right now?" Micky asked. But almost immediately, three pairs of eyes turned back to Peter, who had his chin on his hand and was stirring his spoon in his cereal, watching the milk turn muddy.

"Pete's not in a fit state to go anywhere," Mike said.

"Well, yeah…but that's never stopped him before," Micky argued.

"One of us oughta stay with him while the others check out the club," Davy suggested.

Peter raised his head. "It's okay. I'm fine – you guys should go to _Long John's Silvers."_

Glances were exchanged.

"Are you sure?" Mike asked.

Peter nodded. "I'm probably just going to go back to bed anyway."

After an argument about stilts and the advisability of wearing same to a pirate-themed club (Micky was for, Davy stridently against), followed by another about the possibility of borrowing three of Miss Quick's parrots to ride on their shoulders (Micky was for, Mike very much against – "Remember last night? All those birds are bald now, so they're not gonna make the right impression anyway"), they left, still arguing about eye-patches, and the possibility of getting Mike to wear a tricorne.

"I've already got a hat."

"Well, yeah, but it's not exactly imposing. Where's the cockade, the gold trim, the feathers?"

"It has a pom pom," Mike said with an air of finality, shutting the door behind them.

It re-opened a second later, and Davy stepped back inside. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked. "I mean – I can stay, if you want me to."

Peter looked at him, and remembered last night, and for a second, he had a strong urge to ask Davy if he would do the same thing right now – lie down beside Peter and put his arm around him and make him feel like things weren't as bad as they seemed.

He shook his head. "It's okay. I'm fine. I'll – see you later."

After a second's pause, Davy nodded, and closed the door.

* * *

He didn't go back to sleep. He couldn't. He walked in to the bedroom, and stared down at his bed for a minute, looking down at it like sleep was a problem he didn't have a solution to, and then he walked back out again.

He took Neil's notes with him, and he ended up sitting on the couch, pages stacked neatly beside him. He didn't try to read them or anything, just stared down at Neil's handwriting.

Carefully, he placed a hand over the top sheet, tracing with his fingers the indentations the pen had made on the page.

He should never have tried to be Neil's boyfriend.

He hadn't really realized it until last night, but he should have known right from the start that it was the wrong thing to do. It was too much and too soon, and Neil had maybe believed it would make him happy, but Peter should have known better. Because having him for a boyfriend…Neil might have _thought_ that was what he wanted. But it wasn't what he _needed_.

Remembering last night – Mike's story, and Micky's impressions, and Davy's quiet reassurances, Peter just _knew_. More than anything, what Neil needed right now was a friend. Because he was trying to navigate something new, and difficult, something he wasn't ready for – and he was trying to do it all alone.

Peter wished they could just turn back time, go back to when everything had been simple - back to when he and Neil had just been friends. He remembered the look Neil used to have when he'd come into the Pad – free and happy, like all his worries had just been wiped away. He didn't look like that anymore.

Davy had said last night that he deserved better – and that was true. Peter knew it. But…the other side of that, the side no-one else seemed to recognize, was that – Neil deserved better too.

It wasn't a surprise when the Pad door opened. He needed to get his notes back, after all.

Neil stood in the doorway, uncertain, and Peter just looked at him.

The silence stretched out and out, spreading across the floor like acid.

"Hi," Peter said, just to combat the soundless sting.

"I'm sorry," Neil said jerkily, as if Peter's greeting had prodded him into speech. He stepped inside. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm really sorry."

He took another step.

Then, as if he couldn't help it, he continued, "But – you shouldn't have come to my house. That was a mistake. It just made everything worse."

"Yeah," Peter said, because it wasn't as if he could disagree.

Carefully, slowly, Neil approached the couch. When Peter didn't object, he sat down. He wasn't next to Peter – the notes lay between them like a barrier. He sat hunching forward, and looked down at his hands, dangling between his knees.

"I know you were only trying to help," he said, "But you didn't. My dad's already on my case about grades and football – and no offence, Pete, but then you turned up, and you made it worse. Now he thinks I'm being brainwashed by hippies and that I spend all my free time smoking spliffs in some commune."

"You can tell him that I'm just a student at your college," Peter said. He paused. "Like you told your girlfriend."

He didn't say the words with any particular emphasis, but Neil flinched anyway.

"You know, I thought – I thought you broke up with her," Peter said. He tried to keep his voice steady.

"I did!" Neil said, and then, softer, "I _did_. I swear. I broke up with her, I wasn't lying. It's just…" he finally looked at Peter, "You like it when I come around, spend time with you, yeah?"

Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Well, to be able to do that, I gotta have a girlfriend. Otherwise, everyone's wondering where I'm going and asking me all kinds of questions."

Peter nodded like he understood, though he didn't really. "She seemed nice," he said.

"Yeah," Neil said in a low voice. "She is."

Even though he knew he had to say it, and it wasn't exactly like he was leaving Neil high and dry, since he had a spare girlfriend on tap, it was hard for him to say the words he needed to say. Which were, "I don't think I should be your boyfriend any more."

"What? No – Pete," Neil reached across and tried to catch his hand. Feeling small and incredibly mean, Peter shook him off, and kept his fingers laced tightly together.

"I just don't think it's a good idea. I'm not – making you happy."

"That's not true," Neil said, in a soft, fierce voice. "You're the _only_ thing that makes me happy. Can't you see? All this stuff…everything I'm doing – Beryl, the family game nights, it's all for _you. _I do those things so that I can come here, and spend time with _you_."

"But I don't _want_ you to do any of those things," Peter said. This was slightly inaccurate, since Peter had nothing against family game nights, but the moment was too fraught for nit-picking. "I don't want you to have a girlfriend if you're supposed to be with me."

"You're mad," Neil said, "I know you're mad, and I get it, but" –

Peter shook his head because 'mad' wasn't the right word to describe the bewildered kind of hurt he was feeling. He pushed his joined hands in between his knees, because Neil kept trying to hold them. Some sheets fell from the pile of notes and onto the floor, but Neil didn't seem to care, grabbing hold of Peter's wrists instead.

"Don't do this," he pleaded. "Don't punish me, just because you're mad" –

"I'm not – it's not a _punishment_," Peter tried to explain.

"It's only for a little while longer, I promise. Please, _please_, Pete, don't leave me, don't make me leave" –

Gently, Peter tried to pry Neil's hands from his wrists, but they immediately latched on to his hands instead. He allowed it for a moment. "I'm not making you leave, and – I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. And – if you ever need me – to talk, or – or to listen…well, that's exactly where I'll be. Here. But…I _can't _do _this_ with you anymore." And he squeezed his hands very gently, once, before letting them go.

Neil's hands settled back on his knees, with a bizarrely delicate trembling movement that reminded Peter of butterflies. Neil swallowed, and in a tone Peter didn't recognize, he said, "Okay. For now. That's okay. I understand." His voice rose and got faster as he said, "But – you have to believe me when I tell you – it's not forever. I promise, if you wait just a little bit longer..."

"It's okay," Peter said. "You don't need to explain."

Neil breathed in, and out. "It's okay for you – you don't have all these expectations, all these – questions. I can't even step outside the door without a – an inquisition from my parents."

"Maybe they're just worried about you," Peter said. "Maybe…if you told them the truth…" he trailed off.

Neil stared at him. "The _truth_?"

"That you're coming to see a friend," Peter said.

"That wouldn't work," Neil said, pressing his lips together. "You don't know my folks. I tell them I'm going to see some friend – and right away they'll want to know who it is."

"You could tell them that too."

He made a wild gesture with his arm, as if he couldn't believe Peter's obtuseness. "Pete…they wouldn't understand _you_. _I _don't understand you half the time. I tell them I'm going to see you, and they're going to think I'm spending time with some…freethinking hippie who wants to make me flunk out of college. They _already _think that."

"Then – you could introduce me to them." Neil reeled backwards, face disbelieving. "I don't mean…not _this. _Not – like it was, but…just as your friend. And – if they saw that, that I really _am_ your friend, and that I want what's best for you, then, maybe…it wouldn't be so hard for you." He paused. Softly, he said, "I just…don't think it needs to be so hard."

For some strange reason, his words seemed to have entirely the wrong effect on Neil, who slowly got to his feet. "It doesn't need to be hard_?_" he said, mouth working in a strange, jerky kind of way. "It shouldn't be _hard?"_

"I just" –

"What do _you_ know about it? What do _you_ know, huh?"

Peter scrambled to his feet.

"You don't have to worry about _anything – _and you're telling me it shouldn't be _hard?_ Maybe not for you! You're this - this dropout who just plays his guitar all day and hangs out on the beach, and doesn't have to worry about – his parents, or – or college, or grades, or what other people think. So you can afford to act like those things aren't important – but I'm telling you, to most of the world, they _matter." _His hands clenched tightly by his sides as he almost spat, "Shit, Peter – you're so far out, you're in outer fucking _space."_

He turned on his heel and strode out the door, banging it so hard behind him that it slammed back on his hinges and opened again.

The ensuing silence seemed deafening to Peter, and he just stood for a few minutes in the middle of the Pad, his own breathing blaring harshly in his ears.

Finally, slowly, he crossed the floor and put his hand on the door to close it. But something – some soft noise or movement just outside caught his attention, and he paused, and turned his head to the left.

Neil was sitting, back slumped against the side of the house, and staring straight ahead. Peter took a step. "Neil?"

He didn't answer, didn't even turn his head.

Carefully, Peter came closer, but Neil still didn't react. Still leaving some space between them, he rested his back against the wall, then let himself slide down so that he was sitting on the ground, beside Neil. "Are you okay?"

He tried to think of something else to say, but before anything came to mind, Neil started to speak. In a rough voice, he said, "You remember the first time we sat out here?"

Peter nodded. He guessed Neil could see him out of the corner of his eye – either that, or he didn't expect a reply because he kept staring straight ahead, and continued. "I didn't even really know who you were then. Just that you hung around Jones. But you came out of the house, and we talked, and – you figured me out. You looked at me…and you _saw_ me."

He swallowed. "And then – you sat down beside me, and you told me to close my eyes and breathe. You put your hand on mine – like you didn't even care. Like – you knew, and it wasn't a big deal. And – when I opened my eyes…I could see _you_. You _let_ me see you."

He turned his head, and looked at Peter, eyes full of _something, _and he kept talking, voice so dry it made Peter's chest hurt. "You just sat there, and _let me see you _– and you didn't even _try_ to hide. You _smiled. _Like you really didn't care that I knew. You just seemed so…free. Easy. And I looked at you, and for a second I just…all I could think was – _that. That's _what I want. Right there."

"I remember," Peter said softly.

Neil stared ahead again. "I think about that all the time, you know. And I try. I keep trying to get back to it – to that _feeling_." He shook his head. "But no matter how hard I try…I can't. I just – can't." He turned his hands on his thighs so they rested palms up, empty.

Peter blinked. The sun fell warmly on his face, and the sea shushed comfortingly in the background. He could hear the faraway shrieks of kids playing.

"It's okay. Everything's going to be fine," he said. It was the only thing he had left to say – but the words felt like a lie in his mouth. He really hoped they weren't. Still, even though his fingers twitched, he didn't reach out and try to hold Neil's hand.

Because he knew better now.

* * *

It turned out that the manager of _Long John's Silvers _was happy to set up an audition.

"Though he did say Davy fell short of uh, expectations," Mike admitted. "Given how _The Sasquatch _talked him up."

"But we told him that was all done with smoke and mirrors." Micky paused, "…and then the manager said we'd better not try to hornswaggle him or we'd end up dancing the hempen jig. Which sounds kind of groovy."

"It's a pretty good gig, if we can get it," Mike continued. "It's regular work and the place is clean…if you don't look too close."

"And if we swing by on Sundays, we get all the cackle fruit and hardtack we can eat," Davy finished.

"Sounds good," Peter said. "…I think."

"Good," Mike agreed. "Then we just gotta keep focused and do a good job at the audition and – is everything okay, Pete? You look a little…" he trailed off.

"I'm okay," Peter said. Then, "Neil came by."

"Man, he's like that boomerang we never wanted," Micky marveled.

"Are you all right?" Davy asked.

"We broke up."

There was a certain air of nonplussed relief. "…even more?" Davy asked. "Isn't there some point where a split is sort of…taken for granted? Like, say, when a bloke introduces you to his girlfriend?" He patted Peter's arm, offering a kind of absent comfort.

"Yeah – what'd he come by for this time? To parade his harem in front of you?"

"Well, I guess the specifics don't really matter – at least you did the right thing, buddy," Mike said, smiling at Peter.

"Eventually," Micky muttered.

"And man, I gotta tell you – am I ever glad that we don't have to see that guy's mug again," Mike said.

Peter cleared his throat. "Well…actually…I told him that if he ever needed to talk" –

"He should find a quarter and call someone who cares?" Micky finished hopefully.

" – that he could still come by."

There was a chorus of groans.

"_Pete_…"

"He probably won't - but just in case. He's scared and alone," Peter tried to explain. "And he needs help."

"He needs restraints and a rubber room," Micky told him bluntly. "Pete, man, I'm gonna give you some real good advice – as a matter of fact, my teacher once said these exact words to my mom, " he cleared his throat and intoned, "_Don't encourage this kid._"

"Micky's teacher's got a point," Davy said. "And, come to think of it – so has Micky. You have to admit – it's not exactly been…easy…with Neil."

"I know," Peter said, "But…it's just…"

He didn't know how to explain just how defeated and _tired _Neil had sounded when he'd said – _"But no matter how hard I try…I can't. I just - can't" – _and the way he'd clung so desperately to Peter's hands, and the way that that was Peter's _fault, _because it all boiled down to every stupid, wrong choice he'd made since he met Neil…so he shrugged helplessly, and turned to Mike. "What do you think, Mike?"

Mike looked at him for a long moment. "Did I ever tell you about this old rustbucket I got half-price from my neighbour's grandmother's friend?"

Peter shook his head.

"Sure it was old, and slow, and it knocked back gas the way my uncle Louie knocked back Tennessee White Whiskey, but I thought I'd bought myself a bargain. Thought I could just fix that old thing up and have her running as good as new with a little bit of work." He paused. "Except…things just kept going wrong. The carburetor plug fell out, every time I fixed an oil leak in one place, it started leaking somewhere else, and no matter how many tune-ups I gave it, it kept playing wrong notes. Come to think of it, the radio never worked either."

Mike stopped and looked at Peter. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"I think so," Peter said. "Between this car, and the one you told me about last night, you're telling me that you have terrible luck with automobiles." Really, given Mike's track record with cars, it was a wonder he'd ever made it out of Texas.

Mike closed his eyes for just a second before saying, "I'm telling you that – no matter how much you love something, and no matter how much time and money you invest in it…if things just keep going wrong no matter how hard you try – well, there comes a point where you just gotta write that thing off."

* * *

That night, they were very quiet as they got ready for bed.

"Davy?" Peter said eventually.

"Hmm?"

"I know you think I did the wrong thing."

Davy looked at him and smiled a little. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry, and I know you guys don't like it, but – it's just…he needs a friend, and I'm the only one who _knows_. I'm the only one he can talk to. And I can't…I can't just write him off, because he's a person, not a car part…and he really _needs_ a friend. And friends don't send friends to the scrapheap."

"I know," Davy said. Peter closed his eyes in relief. "Mind you, it's still the wrong thing to do," he continued. "But I guess…you're doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. So – if you need any help, you let me know."

"You'd do that for me?" Peter asked. "Even when you think I'm wrong?"

Davy shrugged, and his hand reached out and touched Peter's hair lightly. "Well…s'not like I'm going to write you off, is it?"

"I don't think he's going to come here again anyway. At least, not for a long time," Peter blurted out suddenly, because the easy, barely there brush of Davy's hand brought into sudden sharp focus the new distance between him and Neil, the way he couldn't even reach out and touch Neil's hand anymore. "I just – I wanted him to know that…he _could_."

Davy nodded. "Okay." Slowly, he withdrew his hand, and Peter fought the urge to lean forward and chase it with his body, like a dog hoping for a belly rub. Instead, he sat back and watched as Davy retreated to his own bed.

Really, it was good. Davy had been supportive, even if he thought Peter was wrong, and he'd told Peter to ask him for help, and touched his hair, and said he wouldn't write Peter off. So…everything was good – except that Davy moving away gave him this lonely kind of pang. He guessed it was because of last night, the way Davy'd slept pressed up close against him. Watching Davy pull back the blankets on his own bed, made him miss that with a sudden intensity.

Sure, it had only happened once, but like Micky said, just about anything could become a habit.

"And even if he did come back…" Peter found himself saying. Davy looked at him. "It wouldn't be the same. I mean – we wouldn't be the same. We couldn't go back to how it was, and I wouldn't want that, not after everything…I mean – just friends, that's all it could be."

If he'd had a point, he thought he might have lost it somewhere in the jumble of words, but Davy smiled at him, a slow, head-ducking smile that took its time spreading across his face, and made Peter's toes curl for some reason.

"Well," he said, and the smile tinged his words too. "I guess it's a step in the right direction, at least."


	16. Chapter 15b

Notes: ZE END (finally!). If anyone makes it this far...thanks so much for reading :)

* * *

It looked like Peter was right, because the days went past without any sign of Neil. Peter thought about him a lot, like there was an invisible tether, made partly from concern and partly guilt, binding them together.

But there was a lot to keep him occupied, too. There was the audition at _Long John's Silvers _– which turned out to be a dimly lit club with sticky floors and a distinct tint of licentiousness to the air (Mike told him that came from the oak casks that lined the walls). Though unimpressed with the lack of sea-shanties in their canon, the manager, Red-Beard Rackham, hired them anyway, hoping to attract a younger generation of buccaneer. "Arrr – but expect some resistance from the older breed of Jack Tar," he warned them.

Then there was the actual gig, which – apart from the maraca-stealing monkey and the cutlass that ended up buried on the stage mere inches from Peter's foot when they couldn't fulfill a request for 'The Landlubber's Lament' – went well.

There was the incident with Mike and the serving wench, Bonnie Venture, that ended with her packing up her flintlocks, and promising that the first ship she stole would be renamed _The Nesswab_ in his honor.

Then there was the time Micky accidentally signed up to become a powder monkey, and even though they rescued him before he set sail, they weren't in time to prevent his being kicked so hard in the dungbie that he couldn't sit down to play the drums for two days.

So, there wasn't a lot of free time to think about Neil, really. He hovered at the edges of Peter's consciousness, mostly, while Peter got on with the business of…well, living.

He felt a little guilty for enjoying it so much, but mostly, he just…enjoyed it.

* * *

It had been a good night. The crowd had howled and drummed their tankards to the beat of the music, the girl with the gold teeth had winked at Davy and lifted up her petticoats to show her appreciation, and there had only been one cutlass thrown at the stage – which the manager had promptly apologized for, with upraised arms and an, "Old habits, mateys, old habits."

Triumphant, they had stayed on after the gig to enjoy the celebratory atmosphere, the almost unintelligible goodwill, and (Peter's favorite) the free crackers.

After a while, Mike disappeared to try and locate Davy (hiding from the gold-toothed girl), while Micky and Peter had mugs containing a thick, yellowish stuff thrust upon them by a man with a hook instead of a left hand.

"Drink up, me hearties," he said, clapping them both on the back (and ripping Micky's shirt right down the middle).

Peter picked something black and multi-legged out of his mug and frowned at it. When placed on the bar, it spun around and around on its back, so fast it began to smoke.

"Oh – uh – that's…real nice of you, but we're just waiting on our friends – we're leaving in a minute," Micky said.

"Then drink up quickly!" the hook-handed man advised.

Someone put a silver tankard down on the bar, and there was a pinging noise, as the little black insect charged its reflection again and again, seemingly enraged beyond measure. It appeared to be shedding legs with each fresh attempt.

"Maybe next time," Peter told him.

"Yeah, see, Mike, our friend, he's got this strict rule – no liquids after seven."

"Ye refuse to drink with a scurvy old sea-dog?" The man drew himself up to an impressively bushy-bearded height, brandishing his hook in a threatening manner. "Well – ye know what that means!"

Micky and Peter clutched each other in terror. "W-what does it mean?" Micky asked, eyeing the hook trepidatiously.

"Ye'll make an old pirate cry!" And, almost immediately, his shoulders started shaking, and his beard began to tremble. He dashed his arm against his face, narrowly avoiding clawing his own eye out with his hook.

"Aw – well…we don't wanna do that, do we Pete?" Micky looked at him and shrugged a little, before hoisting his mug.

"I guess we could have just one drink," Peter agreed, following suit.

After that, time seemed to smear…like a dirty bathroom mirror, and the rest of the night was a confusing blur of images and sounds – Micky, standing on top of the bar trying to balance his empty mug on his head while Mike pulled at his legs, the drumming of feet against a sticky wooden floor, the endless night sky coupled with the disorienting feel of Davy's shoulder under his arm. And finally, the way Mike's words swam dolefully down the stairs – "There's gonna be a new rule tomorrow – no liquids after seven."

After that, there was nothing at all – until he opened his eyes the next morning to a fuzzy kind of headache and a day that he felt certain was several times brighter than it ought to have been. Luckily, Davy was lying next to him, blocking much of it out, and closing his eyes dealt satisfactorily with the rest.

Except.

The sudden thought '_Why is Davy lying next to me?' _rolled into his mind like a train, pulling a carriage of indistinct pain behind it. It hurt to think.

He opened one eye. Then the other. No, there was no mistaking it – he was lying on his side in his own bed, facing Davy, who was likewise lying on his side in Peter's bed. He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on last night, and – Peter looked down and checked – so was he.

His mouth was dry…so maybe this was a mirage? He frowned, and reached out to poke Davy on the shoulder. But when he looked down, he found his hand was otherwise occupied – holding Davy's hand.

He stared at their joined hands, and gave a cautious, experimental squeeze. He was rewarded by a sharp breath in, a sigh and the abrupt focus of Davy's still sleepy eyes.

Thus far, he had to admit, a number of signs pointed to this being real.

"You're awake," Davy said. Peter didn't know whether to count this as a sign or not, since the entire purpose of mirages was to mislead.

"I am?" he said.

"Looks like it to me. How are you feeling?"

Peter thought about it. "I don't know." It felt like while he still had his limbs and vital organs…they were all slightly disconnected from each other. "What happened last night?"

"You and Micky got into a grog-drinking competition," Davy told him. "You both lost. You don't remember?"

Peter frowned. "Parts of it. Where were you?"

Davy cleared his throat. It made Peter feel like his left ear was being cleaned with a small saw. "Well, Rosie was coming on a bit strong. Meant business, she did – kept talking about making me her first mate, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. So Red-Beard told me to hide in the storage locker out back. Caused a bit of confusion when Mike came looking for me."

"Oh," Peter said. "And – why are you," he swallowed, "– here?"

"You asked me to sleep with you."

It felt like his face was on fire, and he half-expected Davy to move backwards (not that there was a lot of 'backwards' to move _to, _given the size of the bed) or at least ask for some sun lotion, but he just regarded Peter with calm eyes. "You said 'please' and everything. Got a bit insistent about it, actually."

He held up their still joined hands.

The faint lingering tinge of grog-induced malaise mixed with sudden and extreme embarrassment in a dizzyingly unpleasant way. Still, Peter managed to pull his hand out of Davy's and mumble, "Sorry." Only the thought that Davy obviously hadn't considered that Peter might have meant that request in a less innocent way kept him from attempting to sink all the way down to the centre of the earth with embarrassment.

"S'okay," Davy said. "I didn't mind."

Of course – Peter didn't know for sure that he _had _intended his request in that less innocent way, and he would have liked to give himself the benefit of the doubt, but then again, people always said it was the quiet ones that you had to watch. He resolved to keep a closer eye on himself in the future.

Peter felt something against his chest. Davy's hand – the one that he'd been holding, had moved.

"It could have been worse, you know. You could have asked me to walk the plank," he played absently with Peter's shirt. "Or swab the deck," he added thoughtfully. One of his fingers slipped in between the buttons to brush against Peter's skin. Peter sucked in a breath that pounded in his ears. "Hoist the mainsail…" The finger kept stroking. "Climb the rigging…"

"…empty the bilge," Peter managed. He wondered if the words made sense.

Davy grinned at him. "See – could have been worse." His finger kept moving against Peter's skin, and Peter fought the urge to shiver. Despite the limited range of motion Davy had given the less than generous space between buttons, it felt like lines of electricity were running from the pad of his finger and zinging all through Peter's body.

"Hey…Pete…" Davy said, and suddenly, his eyes were serious and he wasn't smiling anymore.

"Yeah?" he asked…or he thought he asked…and maybe it was another result of the grog, but he could feel himself inclining forwards slowly…or maybe it was Davy who was leaning in, closing the meager distance between them and –

They both started back at the sound of sudden rummaging above their heads, followed by swearing and the sound of panicked feet on the staircase. A minute later, the door swung open and Mike said, "Hey – have either of you two seen Micky? I think he mighta gone walkabout in the middle of the night, and now I can't find him…"

* * *

Apart from a vague unbalanced sensation that persisted for about an hour after he got to his feet, the after-effects of the grog wore off pretty quickly. Which was a good thing, because when Micky still hadn't returned home two hours later, Mike was able to coordinate a three-pronged search strategy.

"Okay, Pete – you're gonna check the record store and the park, Davy – you take the beach and Yolanda's house, and I'm gonna head on over to _Long John's Silvers _and make sure that Micky didn't double back last night."

The record store and the park came up empty and after a brief detour to check the discount toy store and the malt shop (neither of which contained Micky), he headed back home, hoping that Mike or Davy had had better luck.

He walked slowly, and though he tried to keep his mind in the present, he found himself drifting back to how he'd woken up that morning. The spot on his chest tingled, still sensitized after Davy's touch.

It took him a minute to place the tall figure pacing outside the Pad, mostly because for the first time in a while, he wasn't expecting him. Neil spotted him at almost the same time, and he stopped and waited as Peter slowly closed the distance between them.

"Hey!" Neil said, as soon as he got close enough. "Hey." His smile was a little disorienting to Peter, given the circumstances of their last meeting.

"Hi," Peter said, coming to a stop in front of the door.

"I'm glad you're here," Neil said, after a brief, awkward pause. "I came by last night, but no-one was in."

"We play _Long John's Silvers _on Sunday nights now," Peter explained.

"Oh. That's why I missed you, then." Neil shifted from foot to foot. "Can I come in?"

He seemed expectant, full of suppressed excitement. It was a nice change, but jarring at the same time. "Yeah. Of course."

They sat at the kitchen table. Well, Peter sat – almost immediately, Neil got out of his chair, took off his football jacket, then moved to pace around the table.

"How are you?" he asked, finally.

"I'm good," Peter said, twisting around in his seat to look at Neil.

"Yeah. You sound good. This thing – this _Long John's Silvers _gig – that sounds good." He finished circling the table.

"It is," Peter said. He looked at Neil with curiosity. "How are you?"

"I'm good too. Thanks."

"I'm glad."

"Yeah. I just" – abruptly, Neil pulled out his chair and sat down again. He leaned forward. "Listen…I know I haven't been around so much lately" –

"That's okay," Peter said. "You've been busy."

"Yeah. I was. But – I think…I think I'm really getting somewhere now. I turned in some papers, Coach is happy with the way I'm playing – my parents are finally starting to ease off…I think I'm getting things back on track."

"That's good," Peter said, and he meant it. "I'm really glad for you. And – I'm glad you came here to tell me." He smiled at Neil. "Thank you."

It felt like a weight was rolling off his shoulders – a weight he hadn't fully realized he'd been carrying until that moment.

They sat at the table, smiling across at each other for a moment, before Neil ducked his head, grinning down at the table. "Yeah. Yeah. So," he looked up again. "I'm thinking, one more week, maybe two, and then…and then" – he reached over and put his hand on top of Peter's.

Peter blinked and stared down at the table, at Neil's hand, resting on top of his. "What?" he said, and then, "No – I…friends – that's what I said." He pulled his hand free.

Neil stared at him. "Well, yeah – for now. But like I said – another week, maybe two, after I break up with Beryl" –

Peter's stomach turned over and all he could do was shake his head. "No," he said.

Neil stared at him. "What? But – you said. You said you'd wait, you said – whenever I needed you, I could come back" –

Peter kept shaking his head. He couldn't stop. "No," he said. "No – that's not what I" –

"You're still mad," Neil cut across him, sounding like he'd made a surprising discovery.

"I'm not mad," Peter told him. The fixed, single-minded expression on Neil's face made something inside his chest hurt. A lump of dread sat like an anvil in his stomach. "I'm really not."

"Scared then. I get it. I do. But I promise – it'll be better this time. _I'll_ be better this time" –

He couldn't swallow, he could barely breathe and it felt like with every mistaken word his lungs were constricting. He half-stood, leaning on the table. He had to stop this, because in the end it didn't matter, it didn't _matter _if Neil was telling the truth and things were better…because they were never going to be _right. _Because Peter had been wrong from the very start.

"When I was born, I didn't know how to play the guitar," he said, very fast.

"What?" Neil said. He frowned. "Peter – you're not making any s" –

"I like you," Peter said, words still spilling out quickly. "I really, really do."

Neil softened. "I like you too, P" –

"But I love Davy – and that's never going to change." The words came out, inexorable, weighted – almost physically solid with truth.

Neil went very, very still.

Wretchedly, Peter continued. "So…anything you do – breaking up with your girlfriend, anything…" He stopped, then tried again, "You need to do it for _you. _Not for me. Because…it's not going to change how I feel about Davy."

He stared down at the table. "I'm sorry."

There was a sudden bang, as Neil stood up and his chair tipped back and hit the floor. It made Peter flinch but Neil didn't even seem to hear it. He just stared at Peter.

"So this was all just a big joke to you?" he said. He sounded so lost, and his voice shook. It made Peter's fingers curl up by his sides.

"What – no," he said. "_No._"

"Did you laugh at me? Was that what you were doing this whole time – you and Jones? Laughing behind my back?"

"No – that's not. I wouldn't do that. Davy wouldn't do that."

"Why not? Because it's – not like it was real, or anything. Why did you do it then, if you didn't want to laugh at me?"

Peter shook his head, and took a step toward him. Neil stepped back. "Don't," he said. "Just – don't."

He took another step backwards, then another, like he didn't trust Peter not to follow, before turning around and walking out.

* * *

He couldn't fix this. There was nothing he could say, or do, that was going to make this better.

He picked up the chair. He picked up Neil's football jacket. After some thought, he folded the jacket over the back of the chair.

When all this had started, with the Davy Jones Fan Club…

…and that seemed like such a long, long time ago to him now…

…he'd wanted to help. First, he'd wanted to help Neil get over Davy, then, somehow, his aims had shifted and he'd found himself wanting to show Neil that he didn't need to change himself – that he was perfectly fine the way he was. He'd wanted to take away that weird sense he got that Neil didn't really like who he was, and make him feel comfortable in his own skin.

He hadn't ever really taken the time to articulate it to himself that precisely of course. He'd thought of it in considerably vaguer terms – making things easier for Neil. Making him happy.

Except he'd messed every single little thing up right from the beginning. And there was no way to undo it.

Mike returned to the Pad pretty soon afterwards.

"No sign of Micky?" Peter asked. He was surprised by how normal his voice sounded.

"No – nothing. You?"

He shook his head.

"Let's hope Davy has better luck. Otherwise, we're going to have to put out some flyers saying, 'Have you seen this drummer?'"

Mike's eyes fell on Neil's football jacket, now hanging across the back of the chair where Neil had sat. He stared at it for a long second, then sighed, before saying, "Pete…you know…I think I'm running out of car stories."

"It's okay. You don't need any more," Peter said to him.

"You sure?" Mike asked.

Peter nodded. Because there was no way Neil was ever coming back now. Something rose up in his throat and he swallowed it down. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Mike looked like he wanted to say something else, but he was interrupted by the Pad door opening to reveal Micky, resplendent in an enormous beach towel that he was wearing around his shoulders like a cloak – and Davy, standing right behind him and looking weary.

"Micky! Where were you?"

Micky blinked first one eye, then the other.

Davy pushed him into the Pad.

"Where did you find him?" Mike asked.

"Don't ask. Let's just say, Micky doesn't have a girlfriend anymore." Davy's sigh told a story. Possibly one not fit for human consumption.

"You get into trouble with Yolanda?" Mike asked.

"Who?" Micky said vaguely, pleasantly.

Davy placed his hand against the small of his back and pushed. Micky went forward amenably enough, but stopped as soon as the pressure was removed. "He was like that the whole way back," Davy said. "What if he's stuck like this? I'm not carrying him around."

Mike came closer and peered into Micky's eyes. "I want to see what a nice cold shower does to him."

"It'll make him wet," Peter said. He thought the fact that Micky sighed, as well as Davy and Mike, was a good sign.

* * *

As it turned out, it took three cold showers, Mrs O' Malley's homemade smelling salts, a shot of pickle juice and a spoonful of peanut butter before Micky was back to being, well, Micky.

But by this time, it was late, and everyone was exhausted. Micky sprawled out on his bed, face-down. Davy and Mike mopped up the pickle-juice and Peter went to return the smelling salts, feet tripping over each other because he was so tired.

When he came back the Pad was quiet, and he made his way to the bedroom. He paused for a few moments at the kitchen table – he picked up Neil's football jacket, and held onto it for a long indecisive moment, only to set it down again, before continuing on his way.

Inside the bedroom, Davy was sitting at the foot of his bed, staring into space. When Peter came in, he shook himself.

"Long day," he said.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. He sat at the foot of his own bed. "It sounds like you had a really hard time today."

"From what I hear, I wasn't the only one." Neither he nor Davy looked at each other. Peter guessed Mike must have said something.

"Mind you – it didn't start out so bad," Davy said thoughtfully.

It felt to Peter like the events of the morning had happened - not exactly a long time ago…and not quite to someone else…but more like they'd happened to another Peter Tork. A different one.

"And maybe tomorrow will be better."

"Maybe," Peter agreed. It felt like his throat was trying to close up.

"Y'know – I was talking to Mike. He thinks we should have a dinner party tomorrow."

Peter looked at him.

"Yeah. I know I had to give most of our money to that Professional Whistler to coax Micky out of that tree, but – we still have a little left. Enough for at least one nice meal. And Micky's going to cook – Mike's telling him tomorrow." He stopped, like he was waiting for Peter's reaction.

"Okay," Peter said.

"And…Mike said maybe we could invite Pavel and Harvey. If you wanted. He said it might be nice for you to have some other friends to talk to. About – things. Remind you of the good old days."

"Okay," Peter said again. Reluctantly, like prodding at a sore, he asked, "What about Eddie Carey?"

Davy was quiet for a moment, before he said, "We could ask him too. If you want."

He imagined Eddie Carey in the Pad again, laughing at jokes Peter didn't understand, glancing at people with sly, sidelong looks, sitting on the couch…with Davy…

Peter shook his head.

There was a pause.

"Okay," Davy said, looking at him, a little questioning. "So we won't ask him."

Neither of them mentioned Neil. But then, he guessed they didn't really need to.

* * *

The next morning, a returned-to-form Micky was terrifyingly cheerful about Operation Dinner Party.

"Sure I can whip up a dinner for six," he said. "It's like any experiment…except instead of blowing everything up at the end, we eat it." He clapped his hands together. "This will be my greatest achievement yet!"

"Well, lookin' back over what you've managed to achieve so far, that's not saying much. I think you oughta aim a little higher than _that,_" Mike told him.

Davy was dispatched to invite Pavel (and by extension, Harvey) with a shopping list in his pocket that included 'chicken' and 'paper crowns.'

"Chicken a la King," Micky explained brightly.

A variety of banging and clanging noises came from the kitchen, followed by indignant squawking when Micky borrowed one of Miss Quick's chickens ("– just to make sure the pot is big enough"). It all ended in a flurry of brown feathers and an egg dropping from a height onto Mike's head.

While he went to clean up, and Micky chased the chicken back to Miss Quick, Peter stood in the temporarily empty kitchen. He stared at the football jacket still hanging over one of the chairs.

It was still there – and it shouldn't have been. It wasn't his, and he couldn't look at it. It made the whole thing seem…over, yes, but – ragged-edged, loose-ended, incomplete, somehow.

It wasn't going to fix anything, and he knew that – but strangely, as hard as it was to live with the things he had done wrong…

…he didn't think he could live with the things he _hadn't _done.

He picked up the jacket.

* * *

The campus was confusing, and Peter just stood for a long time, feeling overwhelmed and like he didn't belong among all these people who seemed to know exactly where they were and where they were going. He wondered how he was supposed to find Neil.

But just when he'd begun to consider going up to random strangers and asking them if they knew Neil Henderson, Peter caught sight of him.

He was walking, way over to Peter's right, and at first Neil's eyes seemed to pass over him for a second before they sharpened, and he really saw him. He stopped, and the person behind him had to swerve in order to avoid colliding with his back. He stared for a second, and Peter stayed very still, just meeting his eyes. Then Neil pushed his hands deep down into his pants pockets, shoulders coming up like a shield, and strode toward Peter.

"What are you doing here?" he said, as soon as he got close enough. It wasn't a friendly question. His eyes flicked left and right.

Peter held up the football jacket in response. "I thought you'd want it back," he said. "And I figured you wouldn't want me to show up at your house."

Neil nodded stiffly in acknowledgment, before reaching out.

"And" – Peter didn't immediately surrender the jacket, and Neil immediately released his grip on it, "I just want to say something." Neil looked away. "One thing. Then I'm going to go, okay?"

Neil continued to look away, but he didn't move and Peter guessed that was as close to acquiescence as he was going to get. He tried to settle himself, so that the words would come out right.

"I didn't laugh at you," he said. "Not ever. I wouldn't do that, and…I think you already know that. I hope so, anyway."

He thought Neil looked at him then, eyes flickering to his, and then away again.

"But – I did the wrong thing…I probably did a lot of things wrong, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He proffered the jacket. He didn't know what else to say. "I hope – I hope you're okay."

Neil looked him squarely in the face then, as he took back his jacket. "What do you care."

"Because I'm your friend," Peter said, simply, and it was strange – for just one second, it was like Neil's face started to crumble and it looked like he might cry. But almost immediately, his expression hardened again.

"Freak," he said. The word was low, barely audible, and it seemed for a second like Neil might shoulder him out of the way – but actually, he carefully held himself back to avoid any actual physical contact. Peter thought, strangely, that that was worse, somehow.

He stood there, watching Neil walk away, feeling like he'd been kicked in the stomach, when he heard someone say, "I have to say, I'm impressed."

He turned to see Eddie Carey smiling at him. "I'll admit, there _was_ a moment when I worried, but no," he whistled, "here you are, fresh from combat and not even a flesh wound."

A Peter could do was stand there. It felt like his mind hadn't quite caught up, or his ears weren't working right, because the words Eddie Carey was speaking didn't make any sense to him.

Eddie Carey tilted his head, sharp eyes raking Peter from head to foot. "Come on," he said, no room for argument in his voice. "I'm going to buy you a coffee."

* * *

The coffee shop was small, and almost empty. They sat at a table in the corner and Eddie Carey propped one of his legs up on the extra chair. Peter hunched forward and stared down at his coffee, hands turning the cup in slow circles.

Eddie Carey sighed. "Aw, come on. Cheer up. You should be celebrating. Think about it – you took on the dragon and you didn't get burned! Look at you – not even a scratch. I wouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't seen it for myself."

This did not appear to have the effect on Peter that Eddie Carey hoped, and he set down his coffee cup in exasperation. "What's eating you?"

Peter shrugged. Even that seemed to take a lot of effort. "I just...messed it all up." He guessed he should have felt alarmed that he was rolling over and showing his underbelly to Eddie Carey, but he was too miserable to even care. "I wanted to help…but I didn't help. I made everything worse."

Eddie Carey regarded him for a moment, then said, "Kid…I'm going to lay some wisdom on you, okay? If there's one thing I've learned – it's that," he paused for emphasis, " – you can't make anyone else happy. You just can't do it. So – you shouldn't even try." His eyes were coolly blue as he sat across the table from Peter. "Sure, you can shake your head all you want" –

Peter hadn't realized he was doing this.

" – but that doesn't make it any less true. Because the one and only person you stand a chance of making happy in this world – is _you. _That's just how it is."

Peter stared down at the blue gingham vinyl tablecloth again, but Eddie Carey's voice continued, relentless. "Anyway, out of all the guys in this great big country of ours…you put your money on the wrong one. Because something tells me Our Mutual Friend just isn't built for happily ever after. More like…Hard Times, if you get my drift." As an afterthought, he added, "That said, looks like you brought the guy further along than I woulda thought possible. At least _now_ he's got something to deny."

It felt like something was crawling and twisting in his stomach with every one of Eddie Carey's measured, callous words.

"Anyway, seems to me you went to a whole lot of trouble for not much payback. If you were looking for someone to convert, maybe you should've started a little closer to home. What happened to your little friend? Thought you had a soft spot for him."

It seemed to Peter that Eddie Carey's voice slowed slightly toward the end of his speech.

"Davy, you mean?" he asked, and looked straight at Eddie Carey, chin up. Because Eddie Carey had _had _Davy – had lain down on the ratty couch in the Pad with him – and now here he was, pretending that he didn't remember his name.

It wasn't like it was a particularly cutting jibe – actually, Peter didn't know if it qualified as a jibe at all. More of a common garden statement, but it made Eddie Carey pause for a moment.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Davy." He cleared his throat, and his voice returned to normal as he continued. "He always seemed like a better candidate for inversion to me than Our Mutual Friend. I like a challenge as much as the next person, but you have to admit, it's easier to go through a revolving door than a brick wall."

It felt like Eddie Carey was playing another cruel game, laughing at him behind his back while talking about Davy. Pretending like he'd never kissed Davy, or touched him, never had Davy ask him how to make things _good - _and sniggering to himself behind his hand about how dumb Peter was.

But maybe that wasn't it at all, because Eddie said suddenly, "I went out with him once, you know. Your friend. Davy." He seemed absorbed in the sugar packets, picking them up and then replacing them in their little bowl. "Took him to a party…answered a couple of questions for him."

He smiled a little, and suddenly, irrationally, Peter wondered whether he _knew. _Whether he'd looked over Davy's shoulder that night and seen him.

But Eddie Carey just gave a little shrug, "I had a lot of fun. Told him to call me."

Peter's face felt very stiff.

"Funny thing though." He looked straight at Peter. "He never did."

He held Peter's eyes for a moment, like he was trying to tell him something significant, before lightly slapping his hand against the table, and getting to his feet. "Well, listen, fun as it's been catching up, it's getting kind of late, and I've got things to do. See you around, I guess, and…better luck next time."

As he turned, Peter found himself saying, "Neil really isn't a bad person, you know. He just…"

Eddie Carey half-laughed. "Question answered. You really are for real, huh?" He looked down at the ground for a moment, shaking his head like he was debating something, before meeting Peter's eyes again. "Well – don't worry too much. After all...you've got _me_ to keep an eye on Our Mutual Friend."

Almost immediately, though, he negated the words by smiling – a smile with _bite, _and adding, "From a safe distance, of course."

* * *

By the time they realized Pavel and Harvey weren't going to show, the chicken was dry and hard. They ate it anyway.

"I slave all day over a hot stove, and _this_ is what I get," Micky said, wiping his hands on his apron, mouth thinning into a straight line.

"You slave all day over a hot stove, and _this_ is what _we_ get?" Mike pointed out, poking at the decidedly untender meat on his plate.

Afterwards, Peter went outside, and sat by the wall, and looked out at the almost deserted beach. It was still bright, though it was getting late. The evening sunlight spread out, mellow and soft, and the waves rolled in and out, breaking on the beach with a faint, rhythmic hush. A few minutes later, Davy appeared and sat down next to him. He was still wearing his blue paper crown, tilted at a rakish angle on his head.

"I dunno what happened," he said. "Pavel said they'd try and make it." He paused. "At least…that's what I think he said."

"It's okay," Peter said.

There was a silence, but he could practically feel Davy thinking. Eventually, he just came out with it. "So," he said. "What happened today?"

"I went to see Neil," Peter admitted. It had kind of been the elephant in the room upon his return. But for the small fire that had broken out pre-dinner (in the upstairs bedroom - an incident completely unrelated to Micky's cooking), Peter was pretty sure Mike would've had something to say about his disappearance.

"You all right?" Davy asked.

Wordless, Peter shook his head.

Davy didn't say anything else, and in the ensuing silence, Peter found his frustration suddenly pouring out. "I just – the club, and then, and if it hadn't been for me…" he stopped. "I messed everything up. Neil…you" –

"You didn't mess me up," Davy said.

Peter turned toward him.

"Opened my eyes maybe," he acknowledged. The corners of his lips tilted up wryly. "I'm tougher than I look, y'know."

The words were simple, but they made Peter's breath catch in his throat. Because it was funny, in a way that didn't make him want to laugh even a little bit, that Neil, who could have tied Davy up in knots and worn him as a scarf, had turned out to be surprisingly fragile – easily breakable despite his deceptively hardy shell. While Davy, who had to stand on a box to see out the peephole of the Pad door, was the one still sitting next to him, steady and sure of himself in a way that Neil just…wasn't. Maybe would never be.

It made his heart thump in his chest with a fierce sort of gladness - for Davy, for his rock-solid _resilience_. Maybe it was a selfish kind of gladness too, because if Peter had had to choose the person he wanted to sit beside him…

…it wouldn't even have been a choice.

"I saw Eddie Carey," Peter said abruptly. "Today."

"Oh?" Davy didn't seem especially interested. A little wary, maybe. "And what did he have to say for himself?"

"That it's a waste of time feeling bad and that the only person you can ever make happy is yourself, so maybe I should try that."

Davy considered it, and decided, "Maybe he's got a point."

"Don't you think that sounds kind of…cold?" Peter said. He didn't want it to be true.

"Yeah, but – I mean, you've spent a lot of time trying to make other people happy. Pavel, Harvey…us…and I know it didn't work out so well, but no-one could say you didn't try your hardest with Neil. Maybe what you need to do is think about yourself for a minute." Davy stopped. In a stronger tone he urged, "Come on. Think about it. If you could do just one thing – _one_ thing that would make you happy, right now…what would it be?"

Peter stared at him – the tilted paper crown, his warm eyes, his soft mouth…and he let Davy's words pound through his head and his chest, and he didn't have to think at all. He reached out with one hand, sliding it around Davy's neck and into his hair, and he pulled him closer and kissed him.

Davy's lips parted readily as he kissed Peter back, hands immediately coming up to grip his shoulders, mouth moving softly but insistently against Peter's – like Davy wanted this just as much as he did.

He didn't move back when Peter pulled away. Instead, he followed him, leaning forward and touching his tongue to Peter's lower lip, before pressing their mouths together again, kissing him soft and deep, and for a very long time.

"Well, see – that just shows that Eddie Carey doesn't know anything," he said, when they finally broke apart. He said it almost matter-of-factly.

"He…doesn't?" Peter asked. It felt like Davy's hands were burning holes through his shirt where they rested on his shoulders – but he missed it when Davy lifted them away.

Davy shook his head. "No. Because you just made _me_ happy."

The smile that spread across Peter's face was echoed on Davy's. "I did?"

"Yeah." Davy smiled at him – a soft smile. "I've been waiting for that for a while." He stopped, then added, "Been waiting for _you_."

"Waiting? For me?"

Davy shrugged his shoulders. "Hoping." He looked a little uncertain under Peter's gaze. "It wasn't that I wanted for you and Neil to…" He pressed his lips together, "I wanted you to be happy. And it wasn't that I expected…I just thought – if there was a chance, someday…then – I could wait."

"For _me_?" Peter said again, because Davy had just pressed the biggest, most beautiful gift into his hands, but he was certain that if he checked the gift tag, it wouldn't be addressed to him. It couldn't be. "But" – he quickly shut his mouth.

"But?"

"Eddie Carey," he said. "You and – him."

Davy's eyebrows raised slightly, obviously in surprise. But he didn't question Peter. Instead he said, picking his words carefully, like they were made of glass, "I wanted…to be sure. I mean – I hadn't ever thought about it before – me and you. Me and a guy. I just…needed to know. And" –

He stopped.

"And?"

"And – I know it wasn't…I wasn't – what you'd been hoping for. When we tried it out," Davy looked down, dipping his head, and Peter remembered the first time Davy'd touched him – hesitant and awkward…but still exactly and absolutely what he'd wanted.

What he'd always wanted.

But Davy continued, sounding determined, "I figured, if you ever changed your mind…gave me another chance – then I wouldn't waste it this time. I'd be ready."

"So you asked Eddie."

"Yeah." Davy's face was open, his eyes calm, watching Peter.

Peter reached out and took his hand, sliding their fingers together. Because he _could. _And because he didn't want to wait any more. "Okay," he said.

"Okay? Really?" Davy's smile was small, and started slow.

He nodded. "Yeah." The next part was hard to say. "I shouldn't have been with Neil."

Davy frowned at him. "Hey, it's not your fault – you really tried" –

"It was still the wrong thing to do. Because" – he looked down at his and Davy's hands, " – it was you," he said simply. "It was always you."

Davy just looked at him for a moment, studied him with a kind of painstaking concentration that made Peter's heart beat faster and his breath come quicker. Then, his free hand reached out to curve around Peter's jaw, thumb stroking against his cheek. He leaned in until their foreheads were touching. "You want to try something?"

Peter breathed in. And out. "Yeah."

Davy angled his head to the side, and just before his lips touched Peter's, he paused and held Peter's eyes. "Hold on," he told him.

And, this time, Peter did.


End file.
